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VILLAGE PENCILLINGS 



«v 



VILLAGE PENCILLINGS 



IN PROSE AND VERSE 



BY ELIZABETH PIERCE. 



ALDI 




SECOND EDITION. 



LONDON: 

WILLIAM PICKERING. 

1844 






LONDON: 

Printed by Smith and Titford, 

King Street, Snow Hill. 



TO 



HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY 

THE QUEEN DOWAGER, 

THIS LITTLE WORK, 

INTENDED TO PROMOTE AMONGST THE 

YOUTH OF ENGLAND, 

THOSE PRINCIPLES OF RELIGION AND VIRTUE SO 

EMINENTLY ILLUSTRATED BY HER MAJESTY'S REVERED 

EXAMPLE AND ENCOURAGED BY HER MAJESTY'S JUSTLY 

VALUED SANCTION AND PATRONAGE, 

is, 

BY HER MAJESTY'S MOST GRACIOUS PERMISSION, 

INSCRIBED 

WITH THE DEEPEST RESPECT, 

BY HER MAJESTY'S MOST GRATEFUL 

AND VERY OBEDIENT SERVANT, 



ELIZABETH PIERCE 



PREFACE 



SECOND EDITION. 



In venturing a second edition of this little work be- 
fore an indulgent public, I cannot, injustice to them 
and to myself, refrain from a few remarks on the 
subject of its first reception. I avail myself, there- 
fore, of the opportunity to offer my sincere acknow- 
ledgments to those lenient critics who, capable of 
appreciating, have commended its spirit rather than 
condemned its letter ; time has but established my 
fears of the feebleness of the latter, while my con- 
science confirms the purity of the former. I must 
at the same time be permitted to protest against the 
fearful charges and imputations, in which the viru- 
lence of Party has thought it expedient to indulge. 
Astonished and shocked as I was at the exercise of 
such a power of curdling the best feelings of huma- 
nity, I have learnt to be even grateful for it, since it 
has led me to search into the tenets of that school 



PREFACE. 

of Theology, which could sanction such an organ*, 
as its champion. To a like search would I commend 
all who value the privileges of our Holy Church — 
the purity of her doctrine and the simplicity of her 
worship ; and to the power of a merciful God for a 
"perfect understanding ", who alone can make " the 
blind to see". It would ill become me as a woman 
and a christian to take up, even in self-defence, the 
weapons used by my assailant. I am content to 
leave the battle to the strong. Truth is my shield 
and my buckler, against which the powers of evil 
cannot long prevail. I have but to say to that bitter 
pen " The Lord judge between me and theef." 



West Ashby, 
January 1, 1844. 



* The Christian Remembrancer, 



f 1 Samuel xxiv. 12. 



CONTENTS. 





PAGE 


THE COTTAGE HOME .... 


1 


THE BEAUTIFUL 


23 


TO THE BRIDE 


. 26 


WHY DO I LOVE THEE, OH ! WOMAN ? . 


29 


SISTER-SYMPATHY .... 


. 31 


TO THE BELOVED ONE .... 


. 34 


HOME 


37 


mother's LOVE 


39 


A PICTURE FROM LIFE. 


42 


THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL . 


45 


THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE . 


48 


TO MY HUSBAND ON HIS BIRTHDAY 


86 


THE SABBATH ...... 


88 


A HYMN 


91 


THE SUMMER'S EVENING WALK . 


93 


TO TIME 


95 


THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS . 


98 


THE WANDERER'S RETURN . 


119 


HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD . 


122 


PRAYER ...... 




THE ABBEY GHOST 


126 


THE NIGHT-WIND'S MONODY 




THE FAERY SONG .... 


151 


THE DYING YEAR 


152 


THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES 


155 


THE QUEEN'S BRIDAL SONG . 


173 


MAY DAY 


175 



CONTENTS. 





Page 


THE HERO'S WREATH . 


. 178 


TIME A FRAGMENT . 


. 184 


THE FLITTING FLOWER 


.186 


A VILLAGE SCENE 


. 187 


THE SABBATH A SONNET . 


. 190 


TO THE ASCETIC . 


. 191 


HARVEST 


.193 


AUTUMN 


. 198 


ON THE BIRTH OF A PRINCESS 


. 205 


THE ROBIN .... 


. 207 


THE CHRISTIAN'S CONVICTION 


. 216 


THE FUNERAL BELL . 


. 219 


ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF MR 


s. l — . 221 


OLD MARTHA 


. 223 


THE LOST BABE . . 


. 235 


A CHILD'S SLAVE SONG 


. 237 


PENSEZ A MOI . 


. 239 


MIDNIGHT MUSINGS 


. 241 


THE FRIENDLESS DEAD 


. 245 


NIGHT .... 


. 253 


TO THE MEMORY OF THEODORE H 


DOK, ESQ.. . 255 


FAREWELL TO THE RECENT DEAD 


. 257 


THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD . 


. 259 


SHROVE-TUESDAY 


. 266 


GOOD-FRIDAY 


. 268 


EASTER-DAY 


. 271 


THE ASCENSION . 


. 273 


WHIT-SUNDAY . 


. 275 


A HYMN OF PRAISE 


. 277 


THE CONCLUSION 


. 280 



My bark is on the troubled wave, 

A speck upon the waste 
Of waters, welling from the fount 

Which many an age has graced. 

There proudly, on the tempting space, 

The warrior ship flits by, 
And, confident in armed strength, 

Sails on triumphantly. 

Securely, too, the vessel rides, 

Which, piloted by skill, 
Wings on its unmolested course, 

Eluding every ill. 

There glides the frigate's faultless front, 

Upon her fearless way, 
Whose form symmetrical defies 

The elements' rough sway. 

Oh ! spare, ye winds, this fragile One I 

'Tis freighted with my all ; 
And as with you it ebbs and flows, 

I too must rise or fall. 

Lest the remorseless tempest-blast 
My light bark may not know, 

Love's sunny breeze wafts o'er its sheets^ 
And a Star is on its prow ! 



THE COTTAGE HOME 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 



" Sweet Memory, wafted by the gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail, 
To view the faery haunts of long-lost hours, 
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers." 

Rogers. 



Standing one clear summer's day on the brow of 
a hill commanding a view of my native village, as 
my eye wandered over its many beauties, memory 
recalled the changes that had passed over its fair sur- 
face, even within the space of a few years. Many 
a sufferer had been there laid at rest, others had 
budded into being — some called away in their fresh- 



Z THE COTTAGE HOME. 

ness, some permitted to blossom and to show the 
flowers of promise, and others to bind with unfading 
affection the parent stem, that sweet itself, impreg- 
nated the surrounding atmosphere with its odours ; 
yet weeds there were, for they too will flourish in the 
richest soil — the noxious henbane thrive under the 
shade of the chaste hawthorn and the modest rose. 

In that pretty church, towering with its spiral 
pinnacles from amid those clustering trees, I have 
seen the wealthy and the poor link their destinies in 
the sacred bands of wedlock; within its holy precincts 
I have witnessed the new-born babe signed with the 
sign of the cross, and received into the pale of Chris- 
tianity; and within the shadow of that hallowed 
shrine have I beheld some of every age and rank ga- 
thered to their fathers : children have grown up and 
gone to play their part, in a larger sphere of the 
world's stage ; parents have emigrated to other lands ; 
houses have changed inhabitants, — and society, the 
delightful association of congenial minds, and the 
intercommunion of sweet council, taken together as 
friends. 

How pleasant are the reminiscences of the past, 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 3 

especially when tinged with the gay hue of the rose, 
while a gloom gathers round a comparison with the 
pallidness of the present. Was it that the sun 
shone brighter or that the flowers were more fra- 
grant in those days ; that time was dipped in more 
beauteous dye, or that the world smiled a warmer 
welcome ? Was it not rather, that the buoyant and 
happy spirit of youth illumined every scene, gilding 
it with the colour of gladness, and reflecting from 
its own bright centre, the radiance of springtide 
hope and joy; and now that the freshness of that 
glowing season fades, exterior objects lose their ap- 
parent lustre, and only remain to the eye of age and 
experience the unadorned things of reality ? 

There was a time when I thought no place so 
pretty as my own home; but now that the sun 
of youth has set, and the twilight of maturity 
gives to each its natural shade, I am obliged in jus- 
tice to confess, that many a home is more beautiful, 
though certainly none so dear or so attractive to my 
heart. That is a sweet view before me, and the 
stranger probably would not wish it otherwise than 
it is, with the verdant slope from this spot to the 
b2 



4 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

stream ; from thence again the ground gently rising 
in rich pastures with their motley flocks, inter- 
spersed with many a rustic cottage, and surmounted 
by the church tower peeping from its leafy nook. 
The Elizabethan mansion, which has of late risen up 
among us, makes a prominent feature in the land- 
scape; though it court my admiration, the sylvan 
scenes around it are dear to my heart, for they fos- 
tered my childhood, and have sheltered my riper 
years, and long will it be before the villager can 
forget the unassuming cottage that was wont to 
peep so invitingly from its woody nest. Even now I 
see it in its pristine rusticity, embosomed in laurel 
and ivy : the casement windows embedded in the 
deep thatch of its low roof ; the rose vying with the 
evergreen to prove its home affection for the favoured 
spot : — the little Swiss parterre begemmed with the 
brilliant verbena, throwing out its delicate fibres, 
and clinging with tenacity to the yielding soil ; the 
tufted gentianella in its robe of deep blue ; the 
sturdy auricula, the Oenothera and clarkia mingling 
their various ephemeral colours, interspersed with 
here and there some pretty exotic, and scented with 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 5 

the fragrant mignonette; while the modest violet, 
leaving her native solitude, and struggling to forget 
her lowly birth, filled up the interstices of the di- 
vided bark, aiming at the companionship of the fuch- 
sia, whose coralline pendants drooped gracefully to 
meet the advances of the gentle aspirant. Had they, 
those pretty walks, redolent with perfume and 
steeped in the melody of nature's unrivalled choristers, 
the gift of speech ; how many a tale might they tell of 
weal and woe, of departures and returns, of invadings 
and aggressions, of bickering and strife, of amatory 
wooings and maternal solicitude, of the sable com- 
munity inhabiting the fragile branches above them. 
And near stretched forth the long-belted walk, like 
some cathedral aisle, with its groined roof of in- 
terlaced boughs, and in its seclusion, contrasting 
strangely with the laughing waters that rippled at its 
base, bidding defiance to all order as they gambolled 
over the rough stones, or meandered in irregular 
streamlets between the mossy turf. 

Some might probably think this the abode only 
of imagination; but there were inhabitants here, 
fit residents for these sequestered shades. In a 



6 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

quiet nook stood a hermitage, almost hidden among 
the trees, with windows formed of the crinkled 
branches of the oak, while its enduring heart was 
converted into furniture for the interior : look 
through those elms and mark a figure robed in 
sackcloth, bent with the weight of }rears, slowly pmv 
suing his studious way, unmindful of the stranger's 
presence, and unconscious of his admiration. Oh ! 
it is a sweet place. I could almost envy the an- 
choret his home in this little wild, in silence un- 
broken save by the rush of the distant waterfall, the 
full rich song of the blackbird, the clear note of the 
thrush, or the matin hymn of the lark, as she wings 
her joyous flight on the elastic ether; or by the 
brushing of the wild-fowl among the dank weeds, 
as she struggles on to sooth her expectant brood. 
Then at eventide comes the lowing of the herd, the 
mournful bleating of the sheep, and the chime of the 
far-off bells, steeping in melody the last beams of the 
setting sun, as closing his diurnal course along the 
heavens, he sinks with added splendour on his west- 
ern bed, clothing in the roseate hues of his departing 
glory the tleecy canopy above. Deeper becomes the 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 7 

glow. That starry coronet of rays ! how transient ! 
already its vivid tracery is gone, just preceding the 
solar orb, which, as a ball of fire, now vanishes from 
the sight. How gorgeous, yet how solemn is the 
working of this great engine in the machinery of 
nature ! how unfathomable the power of its mighty 
master ! Then succeeds twilight, the interregnum 
between day and night, both and neither; a brief 
space for reflection, an hour for prayer. How beau- 
tiful is day ! 

Behold Night now assume the imperial purple and 
throw her mantle round, committing all to the keep- 
ing of her sister, Sleep, who waves her guardian wand, 
and the exhausted frame reposes. Not that of the so- 
litaire ; — for he is ever awake to the charms of night, 
and loves to mark, as he would emulate, the revol- 
ving beauties which know no rest ; the moon with her 
attendant myriad of lesser lights gently piercing the 
dark shroud, and with her mild radiance silvering 

Each glade and glen — each tower and hill, 
The ocean wave, and limpid rill ; 

to press the velvet turf spangled with phosphoric 



8 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

glow-worms, like so many gems reflecting the lamps 
of heaven : to list to night's sweet minstrel, as she 
passes from her soft prelude, through varied strains 
of grave and gay, to the long quivering notes that 
thrill the earth with untaught harmony ; untaught, 
but made in the full accomplishment of excellence 
by the master-mind, through the mysterious gift of 
instinct. How beautiful is night ! how perfect 
nature ! a crystal through which beams the chastened 
effulgence of its Maker ! It is the frail vessel, man, 
first formed in the image of the universal parent, 
that, with his indwelling canker-worm Sin, alone 
taints the fair scene of earth. Sweet, indeed, and 
profitable is this spot for meditation and for prayer ; 
but can meditation and prayer, can faith and hope, 
unaccompanied and unattended, be a sure guide, 
through the buffettings of time, or procure that 
happiness which the soul in vain yearns for in this 
sublunary sphere ? 

All around this little hermitage is at present calm 
and tranquil, almost unearthly, soothing to the feel- 
ings and welcome to the gentle of heart : in the 
front stretches far the luxuriant pasture, on which 



THE COTTAGE HOME. V 

the cattle graze and ruminate undisturbed : yet they 
have their instinctive propensities, to the injury of 
themselves or others, though nothing here calls them 
forth. That sheet of water, with its nest of green 
islands, covered with shrubs and underwood, that 
lave their branches in its glassy flood, tell only of re- 
pose till the elements are roused, when the waters 
become ruffled, and the young sapling severed from 
its support, that awhile since seemed but as a loan 
from Elysian bowers. There gliding on its surface, 
see the majestic swan, whose arched neck bespeaks 
the pride of superiority, while his plumage is spotless 
and his course smooth ; but see him in the slightest 
degree impeded in that course, see even one of his 
own species venture on the same track, his innate 
ire gleams forth, the curved crest of pride is lowered, 
a feather is plucked from his white plumage, and 
the rest are not unfrequently sullied by contact with, 
or by the blood shed of, his antagonist. Thus is 
faintly pictured the deceitfulness of the confidence, 
and the danger of the self-complacency with which 
the recluse moves on his unobstructed way, congratu- 
lating himself that he is not as other men are, that he 
b 5 



10 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

is undefiled by the world, that he does evil to no man, 
that he believes in the efficacy of the spirit, the atone- 
ment of Christ, relies on the mercy of his God, and 
is saved ! Melancholy delusion ! Show thy faith by 
thy works, oh, man ! or thou art as sounding brass or 
a tinkling cymbal, and weighest light in the balance 
of the just judge, compared with him who has mixed 
in the world, dividing his substance with the needy, 
and pouring balm into the afflicted bosom; has 
offered both cheeks to the smiter ; who bruised and 
beaten, through evil report and good report, bends 
his knee on the world's threshold, and pours out his 
wounded heart to him who seeth all hearts, in the 
words of the contrite publican, " Lord, have mercy 
upon me a sinner V And he it is who surely returns 
to his house justified rather than the other! 

I could linger long in this cherished scene and 
dwell with mournful pleasure on the sports and the 
pastimes of by-gone days, when the verdure hardly 
bent under the light foot, and the still air echoed 
back the merry laugh of childhood : but as fe for- 
ward " is the watchword of time and the porter of 
eternity ; better is it to follow the bright star, glow- 



THE COTTAGE HOME, 11 

ing yonder in the east, that can lead us to untold 
happiness, than to dwell on departed pleasures that 
can never be recalled. Adieu, then, ye sylvan joys I 
ye woodland shades of many a youthful sport ! 
and with memory for my guide, I pass through the 
little gate, cross the strip of grass and enter the shrub- 
bery, that alike in winter and summer invited the eye 
to its beauties, from the primrose and the violet in 
their 1 shady nook to the dahlia and chrysanthemum 
which unblushingly met the gaze of the bold breezes ; 
from the early rose, sent forth as Flora's pioneer, to 
the cheering evergreen that sets at nought the perse- 
cution of the enemy of vegetation, frost, and seems 
to play at bo-peep with the winter's snow, beneath 
whose power the vaunted superiority of man is often 
obliged to succumb. All seasons here smile a wel- 
come to the visitor, whether it be the poor cottager, 
craving a morsel for a sick relative, or the ennuie 
rolling in his luxurious equipage, I approach the 
cottage and, standing within the porch lined with ivy 
and dotted with the monthly rose, I recognise the 
brass knocker, bright as in those days of juvenile as- 
pirations, when to reach its somewhat lofty position 



12 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

was beyond my most sanguine hopes. Some cheerful 
voice among the many then never failed to make the 
early "how do you do?" For here in this calm 
retreat apart from a busy, bustling world, and sur- 
rounded by a numerous family, dwelt a widow, 
virtue with her progeny of smiles and graces, smiles 
©f affection and graces of kindness ; a unity of feelings 
and interests rarely equalled ; a link in the chain of 
humanity which the great Creator alone could sever. 
And I doubt if even the mother of the Gracchi was 
more devoted to, or more gloried in the greatness of, 
her sons, than did this pattern of mothers in the un- 
presuming excellence of her children, to each of 
whom she was the nurse, the soother, the adviser 
and the friend; to all, the companion, the partici- 
pator of their amusements and their pleasures. And 
never did one hear, " Mother, dearest mother," ut- 
tered under that roof, but one's heart responded to all 
the affection it implied, nor eould the most fastidious 
question the justice of the appeal. Now after a lapse 
of more than twenty years, how many are the happy 
days I could number, spent in that united family, 
from my early childhood till the last vestige that could 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 13 

indicate its existence was swept away, — now lying 
entombed only in the recollections of its survivors ; 

When time was young, 

We danced and sung, 
Nor thought of clouds or danger's power, 
But, basking in the sunny hour, 

Care to the winds we flung. 

By the clear brook planting banks of primroses and 
violets, or paddling with an intuitive love of mischief 
in the limped stream, hiding beneath the thorn 
bushes, or chasing the butterflies in the meadow; 
and when the presence of winter stayed these out of 
door amusements, the pleasures within were found 
not less attractive : no Christmas games were surely 
ever so merry, and no snap dragon ever threw up its 
livid glare, or was hailed with more joyous and ex- 
ulting acclamations than rose within those cottage 
walls. The evening, perhaps, proved stormy, and a 
message was sent, with compliments, and a hope 
that the litttle visitor might be allowed to remain all 
night ; this acceded to, some innocent deception was 
concocted, or disguise assumed, that might add 
mirth and novelty to the hilarity of the evening. 



14 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

One of these sallies occurs very vividly to my re- 
collection, associated as it is with one, an affectionate, 
indulgent, and most beloved parent, who has long 
since been lain at rest, and which now, after many 
years have passed, I have a melancholy pleasure in 
recalling. It was on one of those winter evenings, 
such as I have just alluded to, with deep snow on the 
ground, and altogether very cold and comfortless, that 
one of the young ladies, the oldest and tallest of the 
family was padded and puffed, cloaked and bonneted 
with the most scrupulous exactness, and sent forth 
with many injunctions of what was to be said and what 
done in the approaching exhibition ; she representing 
a portly dame from a neighbouring village, while I, 
passing for her daughter, was disguised to play my 
part in the little comedy, and carried in the arms of 
her kind brother to our destination. Having walked 
through the snow and knocked at the kitchen door 
of my own dear home, which was soon opened, we, 
with much hospitable ceremony, were invited for* 
ward \ the fire was stirred and my adopted mother 
duly ensconsed in an arm chair near it, and the 
footman requested to tell his master that he was 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 15 

Wanted. Presently lie came out, when we found 
some difficulty in rising to make the required obei- 
sance ; my companion, from the unusual weight of 
clothing, with which her slight form was encum- 
bered, and myself, from the repressed risibility with 
which I was contending. The master stood for a 
moment apparently surprised at our immobility ; the 
difficulty overcome, my companion made her apology 
and request that Mr. R. would kindly interest him- 
self in getting her little daughter, myself, admitted 
into the recently established school in the adjacent 
town ; when he replied, by asking her name and re- 
sidence. Just at that moment the footman, who had 
lived some years with the family, and had been hover- 
ing near us from our first entrance, fairly peeped under 
my rustic bonnet, and immediately exclaimed, " Well, 
I declare, if it isn't Miss \" I was not sorry to be 
thus early relieved from my duresse, and, springing 
forward, was in the arms of my dear parent in an 
instant, exulting at having eluded even his acute 
penetration. He, dear merry soul, complimented 
us on the gravity of our masquerading, and entering 
into the joke, left us and requested mamma to come 



18 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

out and report her opinion as to the respectability of 
the mother, and the fitness of the child for admis- 
sion into the school. But the servants were too much 
pleased with the joke to allow any one to remain 
long in ignorance of its merits, and again betrayed 
ns. "We were then exhibited to some friends stay- 
ing in the house, and after much laughter and 
many compliments, made our conge and retired, de- 
lighted with the feat and longing to tell the conse- 
quence of our extreme cleverness at the cottage. 
Then came the supper, of all meals the most enjoyed 
by children, as anticipating the independence and 
increased importance, as they imagine, of maturity : 
those delicious sausage rolls too and mince pies of 
the first order : then the bustle of moving from 
the table and drawing the chairs round the cheerful 
hearth, the stirring of the fire and heaping on fresh 
wood : the disputes of who should sit together, and 
who should be considered company by being placed 
in the seat of honour, which was generally the last 
one occupied : the telling of odd occurrences, and 
wonderful ghost stories, till the whistling of the 
wind through the crevices brought a shudder over 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 17 

the frame of the listener, and the grim face of some 
old ancestor hanging opposite, seemed descending 
in wrath from the canvass. And when wound up to 
the most charming state of consternation, the " dear 
mother" would dexterously take the thread in hand 
and wind it to a point round which • we all rallied. 
Then the merry laugh rang through the party and 
the unanimous resolution passed that the last story 
was undoubtedly the best; with the earnest hope 
that many a circling year would continue to us the 
welcome and advantageous presence of its valued 
narrator. 

And long was her family blessed with the society 
and the councils of this truly English matron, who, 
as years rolled by, saw her children rise up and call 
her blessed; her sons and daughters married and 
dispersed abroad, — one only being missing from the 
group, a fine young man of sterling qualities, who 
had early entered the naval service, and it was 
thought would have distinguished himself in his 
profession, had it pleased God to spare him. But 
he lost his life during the bombardment of Algiers 
under the command of the talented and victorious 



18 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

Lord Exmouth. One of the last balls discharged 
from that pirate hold, wrenched this promising 
branch from the parent olive, who meekly bent her 
to the blow, thankfully acknowledging that so many 
of her young hopes were still spared to her. Thus 
did she pass on her Christian course, rejoicing in 
the mercies and comforts she received, instead of 
murmuring that others were withheld, till gradually 
sinking into the vale of years, she witnessed her 
grandchildren reach maturity, and received by uni- 
versal consent, and with respect rarely equalled, the 
venerable appellation of the " old lady/'' the rather 
from the style of her dress, and the various stages of 
life that looked up to her as their head, than from 
any appearance of the infirmities of age or the decay 
of any mental energy. On the contrary, like the 
treasured oak, each year seemed to add strength to 
her character ; and time, which matured the many 
suckers flourishing around her, swept away her 
vernal bloom only to mould it in solidity at the 
heart ; and while the freshness of youth caught the 
admiring gaze of the world, who so insensible as 
not to see and to venerate the parent tree that shel- 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 19 

tered and adorned them ? Where is now that parent 
tree ? lifted gently from its place, and laid with its 
kindred dnst ; transplanted, we hope and believe, to 
the unfading bowers of the spirit-land ! To the last 
her mind retained its vigour, her affections their 
power. In the full freshness of faith and hope she 
consigned all she held dear on earth to him, who 
alone can heal the wounded heart, and welcomed 
the coming of her Lord. For long had her house 
been put in order, long had she been prepared to 
depart ; and finally, without a sigh, she hailed the 
summons for the mortal to put on immortality. 

It is better to enter the house of mourning than 
the house of joy ; we enter it softly, as if we feared 
to disturb the repose of the shrouded form; we 
speak low, as if the breath of humanity could recal 
the spirit back to its frail tenement ; we look upon 
that forsaken tenement and with melancholy satis- 
faction read the lesson imprinted on the placid brow, 
and we almost envy the spirit its rest ; we touch the 
hand, once so busy in occupation, so warm in its 
welcome, and the whole frame thrills under the icy 
contact, while we feel through every fibre of our 



20 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

being the awe, the certainty, the individuality of 
death ! How touching are those flowers, wreathed 
by the hand of affection, clinging as it were, while 
adorning with tenderness, the last shred of their 
source of life ; emblems of unsullied purity, emblems 
of that beatitude, they doubted not, was her allotted 
portion. Mirth, in moments like these, appears but 
the ghastly smile of the king of terrors, leaving a 
vacuum which contrasts sadly with the fulness of 
satisfaction and contentment consequent upon sym- 
pathy with the afflicted, and reflections beyond the 
fleeting things of the hour. Life is a path of trial, 
and sorrow the garb of humanity. We must float 
with the stream of time, and though the passage be 
rough and dark, we look to the Perfect One as to a 
magnet that will lead us to the envied port. 

Weep not, fair daughters of earth, as those who 
have no hope ; but take to your souPs health, the com- 
fort a merciful providence administers to those, who 
mourn over the virtuous dead; sweet as the flowers 
ye have twined around that matron brow, the fra- 
grance of whose excellence pervades the atmosphere 
of the house of woe, and soothes the weeping sense 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 21 

with its undying odours. Let us gather up that 
sweet incense, and be it ours to present it pure and 
unadulterated to the Lamb of God ! Walking in her 
beautiful steps, for beautiful are the feet of those 
who tread the ways of holiness ; — in domestic duties 
let us be as ready and unwearied, as contented with 
our lot, as charitable in spirit and in action, as free 
from offence both towards God and towards man, as 
far from ambition, as lowly in our own eyes, and as 
much esteemed by others : then as friends, as pa- 
rents, and as christians, shall we be revered, beloved 
and rewarded ; then to us, as to her who is gone be- 
fore, the meek and humble of heart, may be applied 
the words of Solomon : " Strength and power are 
her clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come." 
Although that widow's form may never again be 
hailed on this fair spot, when will her sweet spirit 
cease to hover, in the minds' eye of those among her 
friends, still lingering, where 

The cascade's beauties sparkle to the view, 
In rapid course, 'mid spray of seeming dew ; 
And gracefully the pensile willows wear 
The veil of mist, which weepingly they bear ? 



22 THE COTTAGE HOME. 

"Weep on, ye mourners, weep, till memory fade — 
Not for the herbless stone your branches shade, 
But for the solitude of each lone tree ; 
More, for the hand which planted, nurtured ye ! 

TThile I have been thus recalling by-gone interest, 
a cloud has overspread the bright prospect, and the 
cool breeze echoes around me my own unavailing sigh; 
but 'tis only a summer cloud, and will fade beneath 
the effulgence of the noontide sun ; and the air that 
now cools the fevered brow may, ere long, stir the 
fresh blade that seals the verdant tomb ! Yet, thou 
gem of this sylvan scene, of which every visible trace 
has now vanished, long shall thy varied charms re- 
main impressed on my heart ; 

Long shall thy image on my memory dwell ; 
Thou Cottage Home of other days — Farewell ! 






THE BEAUTIFUL. 



The shadows of the tomb are here, 
Yet beautiful is Earth !" 

Mrs. Hemans. 



'Tis beautiful, at break of day to watch 
The golden orb in majesty arise; 
And the last lingering ray, at eve, to catch, 
As gorgeous on his burnished bed he dies. 

'Tis beautiful the blithesome lark to see — 
Rise from his earthy nest, and upward soar, 
As if to the celestial gates he'd nee, 
To join the choral band on Heaven's own shore. 

'Tis beautiful to see the verdant earth 
Spread forth her glowing richness to the gale,— 
With tenderest care to nourish into birth 
Sweet floral gems to deck the sylvan dale. 



24 THE BEAUTIFUL. 

'Tis beautiful, with the meandering brook, 
To wildly wander through the flowery mead, 
As, prying into many a pebbly nook, 
It bears away the emigrating seed. 

'Tis beautiful to stand on Jura's height, 
With sunshine and the clear blue sky above ; 
See Mont Blanc rear to heaven his silvery light, 
And bathe his shadowy brow in Leman's love. 

'Tis beautiful to mark the troubled sea 
Writhe foaming in his Ian, and, tempest-tossed, 
Like spell-bound monster, struggling to be free, 
But by an unseen power for ever crossed. 

'Tis beautiful on virgin snow to trace, 
With the true pencil of an artist's skill. 
The sacrificial Lamb's redeeming grace, 
Who made the ocean and the whirlwind still. 

'Tis beautiful to see the indwelling dove 
Find in the sin-drowned world a resting place : 
And sure the mirror of a mother's love 
Reflects the image of unwearied grace ! 



THE BEAUTIFUL. 25 

Yet beautiful — more beautiful to see 
The hopeful Christian in his dying hour, 
Piercing the veil of dim futurity, 
Already conscious of atoning power. 

And how surpassing beautiful the scene 
That waits the soul to be supremely blest — 
Ear hath not heard, nor human eye hath seen, 
The bliss mysterious in the land of rest ! 






TO THE BRIDE. 



Sister of Charity ! blush not now 
That thy path is strewn with the Orange blow, 
For spotless wreaths, 
Where the sweetest breathes, 
Are borne on the gale of the Bridal vow. 

Sister of Charity ! snow-clad Bride ! 

Through life, as now, mayst thou calmly glide ; 

Like the Christian's dower, 

May thy nuptial hour. 
Be of brightest hope and chastened pride. 

Sister of Charity ! pass not yet 

To the sacred shrine, where we oft have met, 

Without one sigh 

Of sympathy 
With friends that linger in regret. 



! 



TO THE BRIDE. 27 

Sister of Charity ! south and north, 

Thy alms and thy deeds herald thee forth ; 

Ample in merit, 

Though poor in spirit, 
Daughter of virtue ! Bride of worth ! 

Sister of Charity ! light be thine ; 
Round thee a halo of gladness shine, 

In mercy given, 

The boon of Heaven, 
From Omniscient power and love divine. 

Sister of Charity ! be thou blest, 

Joy for thy plumage, mirth for thy crest, 

In ether so pure, 

As angels might lure 
Awhile from mansions of peace and rest. 

Sister of Charity ! Fare thee well ! 
Though a tear bedew the marriage bell, 

For the poor shall grieve 

And with cypress weave, 
Blessings that hallow their parting knell. 
c2 






28 



TO THE BRIDE. 



Sister of Charity ! stay not now 

For thy path is strewn with the Orange blow. 

And clustering wreaths, 

Where the purest breathes, 
Are borne on the gale with the Bride's chaste vow. 



WHY DO I LOVE THEE, OH, WOMAN? 



It is not that the lily and rose 

Thy complexion unite to adorn, 
Or that beauty a veil o'er thee throws 

Whose fair folds may, too, shelter a thorn, 

That I love thee, oh, Woman ! 

It is not that thy features are cast 
In the mould of refinement and art ; 

Since the sculptor must e'er be surpassed 
By the limner of mind and of heart, 

That I love thee, oh, Woman ! 

It is not for thy tresses so bright, 

That thou weavest and braidest with care : 

For Old Time may their freshness soon blight, 
Then deridingly ask where they were, 

That I love thee, oh, Woman ! 



30 WHY DO I LO LOVE THEE, OH ! WOMAN ? 

It is not that the emerald vies, 

With the ruby to shadow thy brow, 

That thy brilliants conspire with thine eyes 
To out-dazzle thy forehead of snow, 

That I love thee, oh, Woman ! 

It is not that thy ancestors trace, 

From the Norman their pedigree pure : 

Oft the oldest and most honored race, 
Fail eternity's joys to secure, 

That I love thee, oh, Woman \ 

It is not for thy beauty or grace, 

For thy honors, thy wealth, or renown, 

For the glitter that e'er finds a place, 
In a fleeting, a temporal crown. 

That I love thee, oh, Woman ! 

But it is for the " Pearl of great price," 
Thou hast sought for aud joyously found, 

That affection can surest entice, 
And a halo the purest surround ! 

That I love thee, oh, Woman ! 



SISTER-SYMPATHY. 



'Tis sweet to see a Woman's eye 
Rest gently on her sister-kind, 

With winning mild attention seek 
Affection's cords to bind ; 

To lift the veil of modesty 

And gaze npon that sister's brow, 
To trace the pearls of purity, 

And bid them freely flow ! 

For there is ore of priceless worth, 
Richer than Ophir's vaunted mine, 

In the depths of every woman's heart 
As pure and bright as thine ! 

And though it be encrusted deep 
Within the darkened folds of earth, 

The magic word of kindness calls 
And gives it instant birth. 



32 



SISTER-SYMPATHY 



If from her gentle warmth you turn 

Away, with cold averted eye, 
You close the mine where lies the gem 

And seal it with a sigh! 

It is not fair or feminine, 

On him alone to look — to think, — 
Whose frame can stem the fate from which 

A sister needs must shrink. 

Nor can man love, admire, or prize 
The heart, that is not also free 

To shed its beams of gentleness 
On woman equally. 

Oh ! tarnish not thy native gold, 

Nor wreath thy snowy brow with scorn ; 

Believe me — 'tis the Upas shade, 
That blights the fairest morn. 



Search — and thou'lt surely beauties find, 
The faults thou seest in others flee ! 

The Lily for thy emblem take 
And learn — Humility ! 



SISTER SYMPATHY. 33 

And thou mayst even learn of her, 

Thou lookest so contemptuous on, 
The way to that all glorious goal, 

That long her hopes have won. 

With hope so high, and heart so raised 
She mourns not for herself — but thee ! 

Since even this night may thee enfold 
In dark Eternity! 

And can the Proud and Scornful hope 

To be enrolled among the Blest ! 
In Abram's bosom shall alone 

The Poor in Spirit rest ! « 



TO THE BELOVED ONE. 



Though flowers that decked thy youthful brow, 

For thee no longer bud and blow, 

Borne by remorseless time afar, 

They 'ye graced his swift destructive car; 

Though withered now those beauties be, 

That once were thine, still, still, for thee, 

One heart beats warm ! 



Though Fortune darkly on thee lower, 
And make thee writhe beneath her power, 
Her favours are but chains of gold, 
Chains that her votaries murmuring hold ; 
Though shrouded 'neattt the canopy 
Of adverse fate, unchilled for thee 

One heart beats warm ! 



TO THE BELOVED ONE. 35 

Though storms arise and high winds howl, 
Though warring elements may scowl. 
And o'er thee many a shower may flow 
Of deep, unutterable woe. 
Flee, then, oh, toil-worn traveller, flee, 
And seek repose, where'er for thee 

One heart beats warm ! 

Though false, professing friends may smile, 
And to their purpose thee beguile, 
With fawning looks and wily words 
They try to bind with flattery's cords ; 
Oh ! barter not thy liberty 
For gilded dross, while true to thee 

One heart beats warm ! 

Though time has robbed thee of thy youth, 

He's taught thee many a welcome truth, 

In place of flowers is pleased to strew 

His gifts in age's silvery hue, 

A crown of glory 'tis to see, 

That paineth not, and still for thee 

One heart beats warm ! 



36 



TO THE BELOVED ONE. 



Though friends grow cold, and foes more fierce. 

Thy fond and dear affections pierce ; 

Believe — there is one bosom still, 

Would gladly bear thy every ill, 

Whose last departing breath shall be 

With blessings wove, as now for thee 

Her heart beats warm ! 



MY HOME. 



How sweet it is, when chill winds blow, 
And feathery snow sweeps by, 

To count each lessening weary mile 
And know that Home is nigh ! 

How lovely the contrasting scene 
'Tween winter's cheerless blast, 

And the radiant beams of cheerfulness, 
That round one's Home are cast ! 

From the cold carpet on the earth, 
With hue of ghostly white, 

To turn with longing eye to where 
Home's happy fire burns bright ! 

How dear, along the pilgrimage 

Of elemental strife, 
Is the calm prospect of a Home 

Where gleams the light of life. 



38 MY HOME. 

That light is e'er enduring love, 
Whose clear effulgence long 

Shall gild the pleasures of my Home, 
With music's sweetest song. 

And many a floral gem I 've culled, 
In lands from whence I eome, 

To wreath with smiles of happiness 
My own beloved home ! 



MOTHER'S LOVE. 



What calms the infant's sleepy cry, 
And sings harmonious lullaby ? 
What soothes to rest with circling arm, 
Her charge to shield from threatened harm ? 

'Tis Mother's love \ 



When cradled in his downy bed, 
With pearly stream so fondly fed, 
What o'er him bends, with tender care, 
Acknowledging no babe so fair ? 

'Tis Mother's love I 

What teaches lisping tongue to tell 
Of mysteries of heaven and hell ? 
What leads the infant heart to prayer, 
In every comfort, every care ? 

'Tis Mother's love ! 



40 

And when, on learning's path to roam, 
He's banished the paternal home ; 
What anxious burns the midnight oil, 
Temptations of the world to foil ? 

'Tis Mother's love ! 

And when the child to manhood grown, 
Has choked the seed so careful sown ; 
What mourns in secret, lingering grief, 
Mourning as if beyond relief ? 

'Tis Mother's love ! 

What power can brave the fiercest storm ; 
Dare Herculean acts perform ; 
Can war with worlds a son to save, 
Or humbly kneel his life to crave ? 

'Tis Mother's love ! 

Whate'er in sickness or in health, 
In pining want or rich in wealth, 
Can cling with such tenacious grasp, 
And even in death the loved one clasp ? 

'Tis Mother's love ! 



mother's love. 41 

What sorrows o'er the dying bed 
Such peace can round the sufferer shed ? 
With vigilance the night-watch keep ; 
No rest by day, by night no sleep ? 

'Tis Mother's love. 

And when the spark of life has fled, 
Earth yawns to take the newly dead, 
Behold a form, with step so slow, 
The victim of maternal woe — 

Of Mother's love ! 



A PICTURE FROM LIFE. 



How much I love the Boy to see 
Fast merging from his infancy ; 
Bursting, with glee, the nursery yoke, 
With joyous laugh and many a joke ! 

A gathering made of childish toys, 
Of tops, those charms for little boys ! 
A bonfire ! then, the rebel cries, 
And bids the blazing upward rise ! 

So full of mischief is the boy, 
That tricks are half his days' employ ; 
The kitten in his pocket rides, 
And fifty other things besides ! 

A moment, then away he'll fly 
Some fresh experiment to try ; 
With self-esteem intuitive, 
In action prompt, imperative ! 



A PICTURE FROM LIFE. 43 

Makes friends with John for some old box, 
At which he hammers, cleaves and knocks, 
Nor rests till he the whole has broke ; 
When lo ! the vision ends in smoke. 

Beginning thus such countless things, 
Aught ne'er he to conclusion brings ; 
Even fickle as the varying wind, 
And every change — a change of mind. 

A pony next the boy must have, 
Hedges and ditches careless brave : 
A pack of hounds his favourite friends, 
A brush to fear new courage lends. 

A dog he cannot live without, 
To echo back stentorian shout ; 
Amphibious dare the watery deep, 
On him with dripping paws to leap. 

Talk to the urchin of his books, 
And see the change come o'er his looks ; 
Wishes " That all in one might be, 
And that were on the highest tree ! J 



'X 
Mi 



44 A PICTURE FROM LIFE. 

The fiat wise at length is past, 
And he on school's wide field is cast ; 
Fair flowers to seek from learning's hand, 
And weave them in a cultured band. 

Youth's light, elastic spirit sinks, 
As he this bitter grief-cup drinks ; 
Ashamed to feel — no words to tell, 
The misery of his first farewell. 

A sympathetic softness creeps 
O'er parents' hearts, — the mother weeps ;- 
Who could a parting tear refrain ? 
Alas ! they may not meet again ! 



THE MOTHER'S FAREWELL. 



I send thee forth, my gentle child 
On the wide expanse of earth ; 

The chequered scene of weal and woe, 
Of sorrow and of mirth. 

A fragile bark unused to aught 
But the noon-tide's silvery wave ; 

Wafted by breezes of love and hope 
From affection's starlit cave. 

Even and smooth thou'st run thy course, 
Absorbed in a blissful dream : 

Unruffled the waters of life for thee, 
Unrippled the crystal stream. 

Basking in sunshine of kisses and smiles ; 

Gems o'er thy fair young brow, 
Beaming in home's bright roseate hue ; 

Reflecting the radiant glow. 



46 the mother's farewell. 

A shadow now rests on the scene 
Of thy gay and thy happy hours ; 

Shrouded the light of thy parent's love, 
And thy native joyous bowers. 

Oh ! weep, weep not my peerless boy, 
Nor hope for a cloudless sky ; 

Unmingled bliss has no dwelling on earth, 
'Tis the boon of eternity ! 

Then chase from thine eyelid the tear, 
That tenderness called from the heart, 

Bid duty humanity veil, 

Or bid it in weakness depart. 

The cloud that is o'er thee will' pass 

Dimming thy spirit awhile ; 
Once more will the sun gild thy home 

And wreath it with many a smile. 

Let virtue, and goodness, and truth, 
Shield thee from harm on thy way, 

Then vainly the syren's sweet voice 
Will lure thy footsteps astray. 



47 



Religion will steer thee aright, 

Oh ! lean on her trusty power ; 
She '11 bear thee through darkness of night ; 

Through each day, and through every hour. 

With her for a guide thou art safe 

From the shoals and the quicksands of youth ; 
Then firm as the storm-beaten rock, 

Thou 'It rest on the spirit of truth. 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 



" Her angel's face 
As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, 
And made a sunshine in the shady place." 

Spencer's Faerie Queex. 



How wisely and mercifully has God bestowed on 
every living being the gift of instinct ! By that the 
subordinate animals of creation are carried through 
their appointed parts in the great drama of existence. 
With man it is the unsought for consciousness of 
affinity to God and of consequent superiority over 
every living thing on the face of the earth. For God 
gave him " dominion over the fish of the sea, and 
over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over 
all the earth and over every creeping thing that 
creepeth upon the earth. So God created man in 
his own image, breathed into his nostrils the breath 
of life and man became a living soul." Placed in a 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 49 

garden of indescribable beauty, and gifted with senses 
to appreciate and enjoy its attractions ; not a being of 
chance, the flower of a day, seed to be scattered by 
the wind, but a living soul, a combination of earth 
and heaven ; the casket of the dust of the earth — the 
gem, the breath, the life, the soul of heaven ! 
Though some may doubt and others dare to cavil, 
where is the power that can sever this indissoluble 
bond, that draws every fibre of the heart to its 
source ? Yes ! though humanity may struggle and the 
powers of darkness forge weapons of destruction, the 
still small voice will whisper, the insatiable yearnings 
of the heart's vacuum will acknowledge a higher rule 
— an existing and everliving cause — a hope beyond 
the grave ! 

Thus do I conceive that religion, natural piety, is 
inherent in, the instinct of, man — seed sown by the 
author of life in mortal soil — seed which can never 
be extinct. Time is the season given us for its 
culture or its neglect, and the sequel is the harvest of 
freewill. If we tend the good seed with assiduity, and 
water it with the tears of penitence, we raise a tree 
of life that will bear us to eternal joy ; if, on the 

D 



50 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

contrary, weeds be suffered to grow up and nourish, 
the seed, though it lose not its vitality, will run 
along the grosser soil and be gathered eventually 
with the chaff, to be committed to the flames of never- 
dying wrath. Once inhaling that celestial breath, 
gifted with that instinct which draws us with the 
cords of love, of gratitude and of hope to the creator 
of our being, we become at once accountable for the 
talents bestowed on us ; and though feeble to prove 
that gratitude are the best endeavours of him, whose 
heart overflows with thankfulness for blessings en- 
joyed; how more than worthless are they who wil- 
fully close their eyes to the divine mercy, and their 
ears to the charmer ; to whom it is given to chase 
away gloom of discontent and austerity, to sheath the 
threatening thorn, to make the " rough places plain," 
whose " ways are ways of pleasantness and all her 
paths are peace •" yet how awful the conviction that 
" few there are who find it." It is true, we are told 
that all who seek may find, the means are easy to the 
theorist. " Believe and thou shalt be saved." But 
to prove our belief is the secret of faith, to wrestle 
with the power of sin, that is ever laying in wait for the 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 51 

unwary and the careless, ready to take possession of 
the vacant tenement ; it is the conquering this great 
enemy, the nourishing and cherishing the immortal 
seed, which can alone satisfy the natural cravings of 
man's heart ; telling us, in language not to be mis- 
understood, that life was never intended to be to us 
the scene of idle or selfish enjoyment, but of active 
obligation, — not merely that we might consider our- 
selves spectators but actors, — that, according as the 
All-wise Mind has appointed, each has his allotted 
part to perform, — and that in proportion to his 
talents and temptations, will be his reward or his 
punishment hereafter. 

Every condition and station of life has its plain 
and obvious duties, and however lofty or humble, 
however active or inert, each and all afford opportu- 
nities for the highest excellence of which human 
nature is susceptible. Especially favored are they, 
who inheriting the same promises, have their path 
in the still waters of life, by their sex unfitted 
for, as they are happily exempt from, the turmoil 
and the stirring temptations of life, yet are the 
calmer duties 'of woman not less important and im- 
d2 



52 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 



perative in their fulfilment. Varied and uncertain 
have been the stations which woman has been called 
on to fill in the history of the world ; nor has the 
great disposer of events thought her unworthy of 
being made the instrument in carrying out his 
gracious scheme in the redemption of mankind. For 
man was not destined to reign alone in the earth. 
" The Word" called man from the dust of the ground, 
and God said " it is not good that the man should be 
alone, I will make him an help -meet for him ;" and 
caused a deep sleep to fall on Adam and while he 
slept God took one of his ribs and of it " made he a 
woman," proving by this single act the destined 
union. Man was made of the earth, but woman of 
the man. Woman was made of man after he had 
received the spirit of God, obtaining with the corpo- 
real form, the spiritual essence which was therewith 
incorporated, not separately and detached, but par- 
taking it conjointly and unitedly ; and highly fa- 
vored have women been from the beginning of time, 
selected as objects of honor, tenderness, love, mercy, 
and grace by the great creator and Lord of all. 
When Eve first sinned, God in his mercy put 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 53 

away her sin, and calmed the guilty but repentant 
soul of the mother of mankind, with the promise of 
redemption for her posterity, that woman should be 
the instrument of " bruising the serpent's head f a 
hope that illumined the gloom of exile, soothed the 
trials of maternity, and comforted her in the mourn- 
ing for her children. It was woman that was chosen 
from all the power of Egypt to preserve the life of 
the future great lawgiver of the Jews, when the 
wickedness of man had destined him to destruction. 
A woman from all the race of Abraham was raised 
to the throne of Persia, as a means of preserving her 
people. Deborah, the wife of Lapidoth, was a pro- 
phetess and judged Israel — " all came to her for 
judgement," to her was given the courage and faith 
denied to the pusillanimous Barak. Jael, the wife of 
Heber the Kenite, was employed in the destruction 
of Sisera, the enemy of Israel — " The Lord shall 
sell Sisera into the hand of a woman." Woman was 
chosen from the veriest poverty to sustain for a 
season the holy prophet, the denouncer of Ahab 
rich in the world's goods, and was blessed by mira- 
cles worked for the preservation of life to herself and 



54 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

her son. A little maid of Israel, selected from the 
captives of Syria, was instrumental in the cleansing 
from leprosy, of Naaman captain of the host of that 
conquering country, and turning him to the Lord. 
"What but grace, poured into the yearning heart of 
Hannah, devoted from infancy her first-born Samuel 
to the priesthood, banished and an exile from the 
paternal roof. It was woman, the mother of Bel- 
shazzar, that suggested the means of interpreting the 
" hand writing on the wall," which all the talent, 
the magic and the wealth of Babylon had failed to 
decypher — 'twas the warning voice of woman, the 
wife of Pilate, that bade the weak governor of Judea 
' c to have nothing to do with that just man, for she 
had suffered many things in a dream because of him/' 
to which had he listened, his memory would have 
been free from the deed, that has written his name 
in characters of blood ! Then by woman came the 
ratifying of the covenant between God and man — 
the end, aim, and object of the types, symbols, and 
sacrifices from the first Adam to the hour that " the 
Word was made flesh" — " God sent forth his son 
made of a woman :" to woman was the promise 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 55 

made, by woman was it fulfilled. To woman was it 
given first to hail the coming of her Lord, to hallow 
the fondlings of a mother's love by breathing over 
her God-child, the confession of her devotion to her 
God, who had favorably beheld "the lowliness of 
his handmaid," while her " soul magnified the Lord 
and her spirit rejoiced in God her Saviour." The 
whole course of that Saviour's travail through this 
vale of tears, was characterized by an uninterrupted 
gentleness, indulgence and tenderness to woman. 
Women were among the earliest and most earnest of 
his followers. He wept with Martha and Mary over 
the bier of their brother, he encouraged the repen- 
tance and accepted the heart-offering of the contrite 
Magdalen, he condemned not the "judged" and 
" stoned" of men, he profferred to the erring woman 
of Samaria, the waters of eternal life, and not only 
did he suffer himself to be anointed by a woman 
for his burial, but declared that "wherever the gos- 
pel should be preached in the whole world, this which 
she had done should be told for a memorial of her." 
And the last earthly care of this "man of sorrows," 
as he hung ignominiously bleeding and agonized on 



56 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

the cross, an atonement for the sins of an ungrateful 
world, was for woman — the mother of his manhood — 
for her gentle spirit he had himself provided, while 
her person he consigned to the care of the disciple 
whom he loved, " Behold thy mother \" It was to 
woman the unwearied Magdalen, that the first glad 
tidings were conveyed that " the Lord had risen/ 3 
and to her he first appeared after his resurrection. 
Nor after this, did woman fail to be foremost among 
the brightest jewels in the Christian crown — she 
ministered to the saints and was had in honor of the 
apostles; and when infidelity levelled its arrows of 
persecution, and the hydra-headed polytheism raised 
its towering front, " women not a few" were among 
the most devoted of the martyrs, and were not found 
to shrink from the revolting barbarities, which 
ingenuity perplexed itself in inventing for the de- 
struction of the patient and unresisting people of 
God : the weaker vessels being made strong by the 
indwelling of the spirit ! 

St. John Chrysostom, we are told, was blessed 
with a " pious mother" by whom, his father be- 
ing dead, "his education was attended to in a 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 57 

very particular manner." Of acknowledged purity 
of life, he was severe and austere in his habits, 
yet he had for his friend, Olympas, an opulent 
lady, an example of piety, who for her profes- 
sion of Christianity was banished to Nicomedia, 
and by whom in his exile St. Chrysostom was sup- 
plied with money, which enabled him " to feed those 
wasted by famine, by whom he was surrounded." It 
is especially mentioned that St. Jerom " instructed 
women in theology," and had a friend Paula, who, 
with several other women retired to Bethlehem, that 
they might end their days under the influence of his 
pious exhortations. Monica, the mother of St. 
Augustine, " charmed St. Ambrose with the fervor of 
her piety and the amiableness of her good works :" she 
prayed and wept for the salvation of her son, whom 
<e she followed by land and sea," reasoning with, 
urging and encouraging him, and in the end with 
divine aid, persuaded him to be " altogether a chris- 
tian." By her importunities to a certain bishop, 
that he would use his abilities and influence to re- 
claim her son, she elicited this memorable observation, 
ft Begone, good woman, it is not possible that the child 
r>5 



58 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE, 

of such tears should perish." Helena, the mother 
of the great Constantine, filled the whole Roman 
world with her munificent acts in support of the 
christian religion, she erected churches, and travelled 
from place to place to evidence her zeal. 

History has handed down to us the fulfilment 
of Isaiah's words, " That queens should be the 
nursing mothers of the church.-" Bertha resuscitated 
the smouldering ashes, — re-illumined the dying 
flame in our own country, by protecting the chris- 
tian emissaries and inducing her husband, Ethelbert, 
to embrace the life-giving faith. And, in the course 
of time, when the Augean impurities, which had 
driven woman, in her native dignity, from the 
priestly hearth, and universally x from the high posi- 
tion in which Christianity had placed her, were swept 
away by the great champion of truth — the star of 
Germany, that piercing the thick film of incrusted 
error, like the sun, before which the clouds of 
morning roll, shed the effulgence of his own radiance 
over a new-born world; then re-arose the estimation 
of woman — queens again became the nursing mo- 
thers of the church. The powerful and indomitable 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 59 

Elizabeth was sent to heal the wounds of her suf- 
fering country, to shield with the segis of sovereignty 
her insulted faith, and stay, with the balm of mercy, 
the bleeding wounds of the martyrs. From the hour 
that wrenched the sceptre from her vigorous grasp ; 
chequered was the scene of Christendom, till the 
voice of woman was once more heard and acknow- 
ledged in the councils of Britain. James was de- 
posed, and his daughters were successively chosen as 
nursing mothers of the church. By woman too 
came the succession to these realms in the house of 
Brunswick, confirming the inestimable privileges 
of the gospel to this hour, when the diadem of 
protestantism rests on the unsullied brow of woman. 
And who that beholds that high place so worthily 
filled, shall presume to banish woman in her purity 
from one of the domestic hearths, among the homes 
of England or in the vast extent of her dominions ? 
And to her, our young and gracious queen, who is 
destined to mirror to posterity the grace and the 
purity of her age, to her, the " Defender of the 
Faith," do we, in all confidence look to protect the 
honor and to sustain the privileges of woman ! 






60 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE, 

I have wished to confine myself to the word of 
God and its immediate authorities, which I conceive 
to be the only true foundation of all knowledge, 
though history affords numberless examples that 
might be brought to bear with much force on this 
point; poetry too, in its imagery and personification 
of purity and virtue, offers worthy illustrations in 
support of the general character and estimation in 
which woman has been held in various ages and 
stations. History, however, is the superstructure of 
man, poetry of the mind and imagination, and may 
be questioned; but the " corner stone who can 
move V 

"Woman in the various states of maiden, wife 
and mother, is throughout -scripture, as well as 
by the early divines, mentioned as the symbol of 
the church, the beloved of Christ, but more par- 
ticularly so in reference to marriage and mater- 
nity. When Justin Martyr and his followers were 
brought before the judge of Rome to answer for 
their religion — among other questions, one of them 
was asked, who his parents were, to which he replied, 
that " Christ was his true father, and the faith 






THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 61 

through which he believed on him, his mother/'' 
Poly carp calls the faith delivered to man " the mother 
of us all." St. John, who addressed his second epistle 
to an honorable matron, as " The elder, unto the elect 
lady and her children whom I love in the truth," 
says, that in his vision there appeared " a great 
wonder in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, 
and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a 
crown of twelve stars •" and again, " All the angels 
talked with me, saying, come hither I will show thee 
the bride, the Lamb's wife;" again, " Let us be glad 
and rejoice and give honor to him, for the marriage 
of the Lamb is come and his wife hath made herself 
ready. And to her it was granted that she should 
be arrayed in fine linen clean and white, for the fine 
linen is the righteousness of saints." 

Yet are there some who permit themselves to 
affirm that marriage is not a religious ceremony ; if 
it be not so, I would simply ask, ought it to exist at 
all ? But that it is a religious obligation, the whole 
tenor of the scriptures, and the precept and example 
of our blessed Saviour and the most enlightened of 
his followers have sufficiently evidenced. 



62 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

It is said that all the apostles were married except 
St. John and St. Paul, and, among others, by Igna- 
tius, the fellow- disciple with Poly carp of St. John, that 
St. Paul himself was married, though not until after 
he wrote his epistle. A miracle was wrought for the 
restoration to health of the mother of Peter's wife. 
Peter, it seems, lived long in a state of matrimony, 
which was dissolved by "the martyrdom of his 
wife," and by Clement's account, " he was industrious 
in the education of his children." God commanded 
Joseph to take Mary to wife before the birth of 
Christ, thus clearly, unquestionably sanctioning mar- 
riage; Christ himself honored marriage with his 
presence, and sanctified it by his " first miracle." 
" Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and 
obtaineth favor of the Lord." " A prudent wife is 
from the Lord." "A virtuous woman is a crown 
to her husband," — are declarations of Holy Writ — 
as also that " Marriage is honorable in all," without 
respect to sex or calling. 

If, then, marriage were instituted by God, blessed 
by Christ, practised by his apostles and the most 
exemplary of his followers, and pronounced " honor- 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 63 

able in all;" — if a wife be a good thing, and 
bringeth with her the favor of the Lord; — if woman 
was created to be an help-meet for man; — if marriage 
was instituted not only to fulfil the ends of creation, 
but to be a blessing to man — who is he that will 
venture to deny his God, to doubt his Saviour and 
question his word, by affirming that they, the Lord's 
anointed, the administers of his ordinances, the 
ambassadors of Christ, are to be the only beings on 
earth debarred from this favor, denied this crown, 
this solace, this help-meet for man, and would 
pluck, too, from the priestly dwelling the loveliest 
wreath that can deck the bower of man — the olive? 
And where, I would ask, can our country look with so 
just a confidence, for the most useful and enlightened 
members of its community, for honour, integrity and 
practical Christianity, as to the unadulterated atmo- 
sphere and unostentatious home of the married 
priest. 

Marriage has always been held as a season of 
rejoicing from the earliest times ; " For how," says 
an ancient writer, t'can I sufficiently set forth the 
happiness of that marriage which the church makes 



64 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

or conciliates, and the offering confirms, and the 
angels report, and the Father ratifies." The greatest 
saints in heaven, at least those that the scripture 
speaks of, which is most to be trusted, were married 
while on earth, showing that marriage was no hin- 
drance to the greatest holiness here, nor the highest 
happiness hereafter. In the time of the patriarchs, 
the eldest son, who was the head of the family and 
was to keep it up, was a priest. All the men now 
in the world derive their origin from a priest, who 
both sacrificed and was a preacher of righteousness. 
The priests of the Old Testament were all mar- 
ried; indeed their marriage was necessary to the 
being of their church. It was by the immediate 
command of God hereditary — a birthright. And 
God manifested his displeasure towards those who, 
presumed to contest this privilege by signal and un- 
questionable interference, and by inflicting on such 
offenders the most immediate and awful punishment. 
When the rebellious sons of Reuben rose up in the 
wilderness against the priestly office, the sand was 
divided by an almighty power — " The earth opened 
her mouth," and the soil, which had witnessed 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE, 65 

their rebellion, became their tomb ! And when at 
the altar of Bethel, in dishonor of his God, and 
in contempt of his law, Jeroboam invaded the minis- 
terial function, the altar was rent and the sacrilegeous 
hand of impiety was withered. And under the new 
dispensation — the New Testament — it is said, " A 
bishop must be blameless, the husband of one wife, 
having his children in subjection, with all gravity," 
Also, " Let the deacons be the husband of one wife, 
ruling their children and their houses well ;" imply- 
ing not merely a permission, but an expectation that 
they would marry. And though the apostle says 
" He that is unmarried careth for the things of the 
Lord, how he may please the Lord, but he that 
is married careth for the things that are of the 
world, how he may please his wife ;" — this it will 
be recollected was written in times that threatened 
great danger to the church and to its disciples. It 
was, however, not to the priest individually, but to 
christians generally, that this language was ad- 
dressed, in reference especially to those times of 
hazard and persecution to which the advocates of 
Christianity were then subjected ; for St. Paul ex- 



66 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

pressly says " It is good for the present distress 
that a man (not a priest) do not marry/' yet he 
blameth not those who did marry, though he said 
they should have trouble in the flesh — that their 
families would be the means of adding to their 
care in the natural anxiety for their safety, in the 
perils and adversities which threatened all attached to 
the faith, while he who was single would have nothing 
but his own individual person to interfere with his ex- 
ertions for the support and extension of the gospel. 

We have but to look back to the purity of life 
exercised by the early christians, and from thence 
trace the tone of morality down to that awful state 
of depravity in which the self-styled church was 
found in the sixteenth century ; to read one line in 
the history of the Borgian court and its dependan- 
cies; to prove incontestably the expediency of a 
married priesthood, together with the illimitable 
benefits that might have been derived not only to the 
spiritualities and temporalities of the priests them- 
selves, but to the community at large, from beholding 
in the family of the man who professed his church 
infallible, and himself the magnet which could alone 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 67 

draw man to God, examples of practical and unim- 
peached virtue. And well may we conceive how 
sweet would be the strains with which the celestial 
harps would celebrate the thrilling Epithalamium, 
when, dissipating the thraldrom of an ambitious and 
unscriptural law, angels reported the marriage of a 
priest ! 

The circumstance of my being the daughter, the 
wife, and, if God will I hope to be, the mother, of a 
Clergyman of the Church of England, will not, I trust, 
be considered by a British public to militate against 
an adequate performance of the duty I have, perhaps 
with too much temerity, imposed upon myself ; that 
of endeavouring to support the claim which, by the 
renovation of the true Catholic Church, has now for 
centuries been conceded to woman — the privilege of 
sharing the homes, the affections, the cares, the anxie- 
ties and responsibilities of the ministers of God's holy 
word. It is true, and I confess it without a blush, 
that I am proud of my religion, proud of my country 
which acknowledges it as an integral part of her 
constitution, proud of my position which it shelters 
and supports ; while at the same time I am deeply 



68 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

grateful to my God who has so largely honored and 
blessed it. Oh ! that I had " the pen of a ready 
writer" to brush away any suspicion that may arise 
of an undue partiality for that state and station of 
life in which it has pleased God to place me, that I 
might picture in all its inborn purity, the virtue, the 
excellence and the beauty that pervade the atmo- 
sphere of a protestant parsonage. 

In the circumscribed circle in which from my in- 
fancy I have moved, in that narrow scene alone it is, 
that I dare hope to be estimated in the light of a 
humble, though sincere disciple of the truth, and to 
be believed when I assert that nothing but an earnest 
and anxious desire for the promotion of principles 
instilled into my earliest perceptions, and which time 
and reflection have matured and confirmed, no other 
consideration could have induced me to step forth 
from my village retreat, and open to the gaze of a 
cold and unsympathising world, the sanctified re- 
cesses of a happy home ; where, I will venture to 
affirm, that if each heart could be laid open, each 
motive of action analyzed, singleness of thought and 
purity of purpose would be discovered written in 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 69 

characters of gold — gold, not from the crucible of 
the worldling, but from the unexcavated mine of 
purity and truth ; not glorying in the pride of in- 
fallibility, but deploring the weakness of humanity, 
made strong alone by the all-sufficient atonement of 
a Crucified Redeemer — where woman in all her native 
grace throws around the chaste beams of light in the 
true beauty of holiness; reverencing her husband 
not more for his acknowledged superiority as her 
head, than as the representative of the church, suc- 
ceeding through apostolic ordination rather than by 
kindred, to the administration of the word and ordi- 
nances of the christian religion. With him at early 
morn does she assemble her children and domestics, 
and offer up the prayer of thankfulness for their 
preservation during the hours of darkness, imploring 
protection and blessing on all the thoughts, words 
and actions of the coming day. Then succeed the 
arrangement of the household, the ordering of ser- 
vants, the providing for the comforts of the family, 
mingling all with the care of her children; — for 
when is a mother's heart insensible or unconscious of 
those calls of instinct ? — the visiting the sick and 



70 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

needy, sending to the fastidious little dainties from 
the family table ; medicine for disease and cordials for 
the palate ; advising the young, sympathising with 
the old, caring for all. With evening comes the 
" social meal/' that, acting as a centre, draws the 
rays in a glad circle of united and innocent enjoy- 
ment — then is the needle made to perform its part 
of the revolving duties, while one reads aloud from 
among the many interesting and instructive works 
with which the press is ever teeming in this craving 
age. An early hour again finds the family and house- 
hold closing their day's occupation with prayer — such 
is the routine of a parsonage, not only as I have wit- 
nessed in the house where I myself have lived, but 
in every clergyman's family in which I have had the 
pleasure and advantage of being occasionally domes~ 
ticated ; and it is from the very sincerity of my heart 
that I declare it to be my own conviction, and not 
merely mine, which being feminine, may, conse- 
quently be weak, but the conviction of others far more 
capable of judging and deciding on so important a 
matter, that the great cause of the superior tone of mo- 
rality and order which now characterizes the body of 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 71 

christians, as it has ever done, since it drew its first 
breath beneath the eastern star — acknowledged in 
former times by the heathens themselves, their avowed 
enemies and persecutors, and doubted but by few in 
our own day — emanates not more from the preaching 
of the pulpit or from the practice of the preacher, 
than from the chastened influence and virtuous ex- 
ample sent forth by woman, as the Light of the 
Parsonage. 

I hope that I shall be pardoned for allowing my 
expressions to betray the difficulty I find in de- 
scribing my own observations without an appearance 
of egotism, which I would gladly have avoided. 
Those observations have been principally confined 
to the little world of the clergy ; it is of these that I 
would speak ; and though I hold each man's home 
to be a sanctuary, his castle to protect him from all 
invasion; yet, when the purity of that home is 
questioned, I cannot forbear bringing to the view 
that Rosicrucian light, which, hiding itself under a 
modest shade, only glows the brighter by the concen- 
tration of its beams; and now that the threat is 
abroad to the dimming of that brightness, I conceive 



72 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

that it behoves every true lover of the faith to show 
forth this light before men, that its good works 
may be seen to the " glorifying of the father which 
is in heaven." 

It is no easy task to select from the calm current 
of a woman's life those eddies of greatness which 
have startled the world in by-gone times of danger 
and persecution. There are now no heroines to war 
with or to conquer the world — women now battle but 
with their own humanity, their world, the limited 
sphere of home, where every hour might tell of duties 
fulfilled and precepts of Christianity practised ; every 
breath hallowed by a purity which may defy the 
tongue of slander, which a vestal might have envied, 
and a Lucretia imitated. Exceptions there may be, 
but I am proud to say, that such I have not known, 
it is only of what I do know and have witnessed that I 
shall venture to speak. 

A certain pastor took a wife in his youth, a woman 
of some personal attractions, and wealth enough to 
justify the world in pronouncing it a "desirable 
match," but he told her not of his love until he had 
ascertained the extent of her religious knowledge and 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 73 

her participation in its ordinances. They married, 
and tears hallowed the bridal of the priest — tears, 
not of regret or remorse, but the overflowing convic- 
tion of the responsibility of the solemn act ; and with 
the prayer of the closet was sanctified the confession 
of the lips, and sealed by the sacrament which the 
ritual enj oins . The wife of a priest, nurtured in luxury 
and ease, learns her first lesson in housewifery by pre- 
paring little cordials for the sick poor; she visits them 
in their need, reads to them words of comfort and 
consolation from the sacred volume, showing them 
how especially provided for, and how blessed are 
the poor, for " their' s is the kingdom of heaven." 
And when to the responsibilities of the wife, are to 
be added those of the mother, it is to the throne 
of him who seeth all hearts, that woman pours forth 
her soul in prayer, for the divine aid which can alone 
enable her to fulfil her added duties, and to endue 
her unborn babe with that spirit of holiness which 
makes earth peace, and eternity bliss ! and at the 
mother's knee to lisp the words of grace. It 
was at the knee of my mother that I first learnt to sip 
with infant listlessness of the fount of life ; and how 

E 



74 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

often too, have I seen her brave wind and storm to 
visit the needy, and administer to the necessities of 
the sick. Like a true Sister of Charity, when more 
than three-score years had silvered her once bright 
tresses, did she, at a moment's notice, leave her home 
of comfort, travel many miles to gladden the heart 
of the sufferer by her presence, to watch in obscure 
lodgings, to which misfortune and a too trusting 
friendship had reduced him; and day after day, 
in the depth of winter, did she, alone and unmur- 
muringly administer to the wants, bear with the 
restlessness, and at last, receive the dying breath of 
a kind but unfortunate being; uncheered but by 
the occasional visits of her children, and the delight- 
ful consciousness of performing a christian duty — 
of smoothing the pillow of sickness, and pouring the 
balm of sympathy into the wounded spirit. 

I have seen the wife of a protestant priest sacri- 
ficing her own tastes and more feminine occupations, 
to aid her husband in the minor but important duties 
of a large and populous parish. I have seen her 
spend hour after hour, in arranging the business and 
managing the accounts of schools and charitable insti- 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 75 

tutions ; — her house open to all, her table spread with 
hospitality. Many a time have I sat with her at that 
table, the only females among a large assemblage of 
clergymen, a mixed company, from the dignified and 
the wealthy, to the poor curate " passing rich with 
forty pounds a year," and him, who, with a wife and 
large family, would walk more than thirty miles in 
the day, to add his voice in the support of any mea- 
sure for the welfare and benefit of the protestant 
church. All, without distinction of persons, were alike 
welcome at that liberal board. Often have I seen 
him, " thus given to hospitality," the zealous and 
excellent priest, come in, when the labours of the 
day were over, exhausted and desponding from the 
opposition and manifest ill-feeling of disaffected 
spirits, soothed by the tender sympathy of his wife, 
cheered and encouraged by her smiles, to continue 
to fight the good fight; and practically would he 
acknowledge the efficacy of those beams that radiate 
from the Light of the Parsonage. 

In my youth, I was much in the family of a cler- 
gyman, who was somewhat strange and eccentric in 
his habits, and who, though naturally no misaD- 
e 2 



76 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

thrope, had his peculiar occupations and amuse- 
ments, and for their full development, he built his 
house in the most inaccessible place he could select, 
in order, as he used laughingly to say, " that nobody 
might find him out." The roads all round this 
secluded spot were generally, during the winter 
months, impassable for carriages ; his own he invari- 
ably took to pieces, and brought the fragments into 
a spare apartment in his house. His parish was 
only a village, and though distant to a stranger, 
he found it sufficiently available for the due perform- 
ance of his pastoral calls. To vegetate in this 
retired nook, he brought from the south of England 
his wife, a well connected, amiable, ladylike person, 
where, for twenty years, with great delicacy of 
health, she continued an uninterrupted course of 
active duties, walking to church frequently ancle 
deep in mud, and buffeting, with heroic perseverance, 
against numberless difficulties; often, for weeks 
together, confined through physical debility, to the 
monotonous pacing up and down a straight gravel 
walk. She enjoyed society, which she was calculated 
to adorn, and none who knew her, but regretted her 






THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 77 

annual immolation ; yet never was that home 
gloomy, either to her or to others, for she shed over 
all the influence of her own gentle grace, though for 
months, her husband was her only companion; he 
was light-hearted and merry, would sing to the 
moon, and soliloquize to the distant mill ; at break 
of day, from his dressing-room window, would echo 
the reveillie of the " cheerful chanticleer," and chant 
from the top of the house, his wants to the servants 
below. But with all this, and many generous and 
admirable qualities, he was of an irritable and most 
passionate temper; in this state, I confess with 
pain that I have often seen him, but I have also 
seen him on those occasions invariably yield, sub- 
dued and docile, at a word or look from his collected 
and gentle wife, when a smile would instantaneously 
banish the frown of anger, and restore the better and 
finer feelings of the christian and the gentleman. 
And though death has long since dissolved that tie, 
and chilled the warm heart, some may recognize this 
sketch, and all who knew and loved its actors as I 
have done, will, I doubt not, acknowledge its truth. 
I know the family of a clergyman, in which the 



78 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

accomplished wife, lias by inheritance become pos- 
sessed of a princely fortune, and for whom I entertain 
the esteem and regard which virtue and general 
superiority cannot fail to inspire, in whom that 
accession of wealth has apparently produced no 
elation or assumption, no change, but that of 
increasing their bounty to the necessitous, and their 
kindness to all. And I know of none, whose 
practical excellence, liberality and ability, can more 
truly justify, if indeed justification be necessary, for 
what the word of God has pronounced " honorable 
in all" — the marriage of the priest. 

One more illustration I must indulge myself with, 
among the many that I could offer, but abstain 
lest I weary the reader. It is that of two bro- 
thers, college friends and for many years contem- 
poraries of my dear father ; who, both worthy and 
excellent men, much resembled each other. Both 
were clergymen, and had good preferment in the 
church. One married, the other remained single — 
the lot of the former was cast in a populous town, 
the latter in the country. The home of the bachelor 
was cheerless and desolate, the only ray that pene- 



THE LIGHT OP THE PARSONAGE. 79 

trated its gloom, was by the occasional visits of his 
brother's family, to whom he was greatly and deserv- 
edly attached, but owing to the great distance 
which separated them, they rarely met. Years 
rolled on, the death of old and esteemed friends, and 
the infirmities and peevishness of age, added to the 
gloom of solitude, and the inopportune occurrences 
of the world, to which he gradually became a 
stranger, irritated and dispirited him ; till at length 
the mind, once so vigorous and gifted, gave way; 
and in the most pitiable state of despondency, he lin- 
gered out a wearisome existence, till a sudden and 
unlooked for death closed his solitary career. Mean- 
while the other brother, happy in a union with an 
amiable and gentle wife, has lived beyond the years 
allotted to man, and, in his old age, to cherish the 
memory of his once " espoused saint" — while his 
wants, wishes and necessities are hourly ministered to 
by his lovely daughters. Marriage, I doubt not, will 
be among the most grateful aspirations of the dying 
priest. 

Thus have I endeavoured, with how much 
success it is not for me to say, to prove from the 



80 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

scriptures and their first and purest interpreters, 
that woman from her creation, though physically 
weak and frail, is spiritually equal with man — 
equally with him heir of a heavenly kingdom, and 
declared by the word which cannot err, "a help 
meet for man" — that she brings to the aid of the 
church, wealth, virtue, devotion, grace and accom- 
plishments ; and apart from the world, often de^ 
barred from all society suited to her birth and station, 
retires voluntarily to a humble parsonage, obtaining 
for it honor and respect — giving to it a habitation 
and a name, which is in vain sought for in those 
solitary homes which are unblest by the light of 
woman : — to prove that to the church, based on the 
rock of ages, marriage has given the cyclopian pillar, 
and the marriage of the Lamb its capital; that 
marriage was instituted and blest by God and his 
Christ, especially in the priesthood ; and as children 
are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord, so 
was the very office of the priest, by divine appoint- 
ment, made hereditary : — and lastly, to prove from 
my own personal observation, the true carrying out, 
of this divine intention, for such I unhesitatingly 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 81 

declare marriage to be, in purity and piety, confirmed 
by my own personal feelings, the reverence in which I 
hold the office of my husband, and the responsibility 
I have ever felt to be inseparable from the position I 
occupy as his wife. 

And ye, daughters of the household of faith ! fair 
flowers of this envied garden of the world ! nourished 
with the sweet waters of baptism, and signed with 
the mystic seal of sanctity, I, the most frail of all 
the fragile flowers of Britain, call on ye from my 
lowly village with all the yearnings of sisterly love, 
to aid my feeble efforts in defending, by the fulfil- 
ment of the responsible and various duties of life, 
and to maintain for woman, the proud position in 
which she is placed by the admirable constitution of 
our country. (i Putting on the armour of light," 
let us prove to our enemies, if such indeed we have, 
that though we are inferior in physical power and 
mental energies, humanly speaking the weaker 
vessel, we are equal with man, as heirs of eternal 
life ; and as " becometh women professing godliness," 
let us strive with them, not for the perishable things 
of time, but for the mastery of holiness ; let us 



82 THE LIGHT Of THE PARSONAGE. 

show by our practice the beauty of those principles 
which the pastors preach; and, keeping ourselves with 
all diligence, sedulously keep ourselves unspotted 
from the world. Let our light so shine before men 
as to chase away the gloom and obscurity with 
which some seek to shroud the path of the priest- 
hood: for gloom is not religion — celibacy is not 
purity. Let us, by raising ourselves above the 
follies, the vanities and temptations of the world, 
be meek and lowly of heart, the same mind being 
in us which was in Christ Jesus, that we may, by 
the favor of him, the spouse of the church, who 
suffered himself to be anointed for his burial by 
the hand of woman, claim the privilege and prove 
ourselves worthy before God and before the world 
of enjoying that high position which I affirm woman 
does enjoy in this our glorious day ; of being, till 
all distinctions shall cease and time be absorbed in 
eternity, the unflinching friend, the faithful wife 
of the protestant priest; the respected mistress of 
his household, the honored mother of his children, 
the participator of his cares, the sympathizer in his 
anxieties, the softener of asperities, and the aider in 






THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 83 

his charities ; throwing around her the sweet influ- 
ence of a chaste humility, and with its mild efful- 
gence radiating the circle of her calm abode, thus 
constraining the caviller to confess that woman is 
eminently fitted to adorn, and by her education and 
example not undeserving of the designation I have 
ventured to assign her, as the Light of the Parson- 
age ! 

And ye, ambassadors of Christ ! anointed of the 
Lord ! sons of the priesthood ! ye, do I, born within 
its shadow, and, like the offspring of the devout 
Hannah, devoted from my birth to the church, with 
which I feel every fibre of my being interwoven, ye 
do I entreat not to tear from ye the tendril that 
would so gracefully wind itself around your form, 
frail though it be, it would make a gentle web to 
shield ye from the chill world, and brave, with a 
courage heroes need not blush for, the storms of per- 
secution and of danger. Cast not from your bosom 
the lamb that seeks shelter there, calling on the 
softer and kindlier feelings of humanity to bid it 
welcome; for in this guise ye may peradventure 
deny entrance to a ray of divine glory, of that love 



84 THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 

of which God is the source, that would joy with 
your joy, and mingle in your griefs, would shed a 
sweet halo around your path, a softened radiance 
over the thoughtful course of piety. Far from 
weaning your affections or withdrawing your atten- 
tion from the commanding duties of your office, 
woman, in conformity with that word which has 
made her the symbol of the church, will in her own 
person and estimation become one with it ; will grow 
with its growth, and live but with its life. Doubt 
not that the clothing piety in the forbidding and 
unsightly garb of darkness, the pride of self-esteem — 
the making himself judge of his neighbours' motives 
and actions, hiding beneath the cloak of devotion, 
his love of secular aggrandizement, and the ambition 
which a single life is so likely to engender ; — doubt 
not, that these temptations are far more dangerous 
to the temporal and spiritual peace of the " messen- 
ger of the Lord of Hosts," than conjugal association 
with the estimable and refined qualifications of a 
virtuous woman. Banish not from your solitary 
hearth a companion, gentle, unselfish, educated and 
pure — a friend, faithful, tender and unwearied; in 



THE LIGHT OF THE PARSONAGE. 85 

short, " an help meet for man," for she is the emblem 
of all that is graceful, chaste and beautiful — the per- 
sonification of the church — " the Bride, the Lamb's 
wife." Oh ! take, then, to your homes this gem of 
the christian crown, this " pearl of great price," for 
" she looketh forth as the dawn ; fair as the moon ; 
clear as the sun ; dazzling as the bannered hosts !" 
If woman be thus the symbol of the beatitude of 
heaven, what earthly breath shall presume to con- 
test her claim to be in the humble abode of its ser- 
vant and its priest, his solace, his companion, his 
friend, hallowing the scene of their mutual labors 
with those chaste and silvery beams which can alone 
emanate from his wife, 

The Light of the Parsonage ! 



TO MY HUSBAND ON HIS BIRTHDAY 

December 1841. 



Around thy brow I fain would weave 

A chaplet of unfading flowers, 
In sweet remembrance there to leave 

Types of our happiest hours, 
And on thy cherished love would bind 

My wreath of poesy and song, 
Unshaken by the passing wind 

That stirs the aspen throng. 
Oh ! would that I a worthy muse 

Could offer at thy shrine, 
And, in its whisperings sweet, infuse 

The spirit of verse divine. 

Though powerless droop the muse's shaft ; 

Though all unplumed the feathery wing ; 
Though not an attic breeze may waft, 

Or from Parnassus bring, 



TO MY HUSBAND ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 87 

The Delphian oracle's behest, 

Which erewhile on that central site, 
Was wont its votaries to invest 

With the future's dubious light ; 
Though far from me Castalia's fount 

To cool the feverish brow, 
And aid me o'er the heights to mount 

Where Pindus' waters now : 

Yet would I pluck a laurel bough, 

Wreathed with the famed Junonian flowers, 
And bid it flourish long, and grow 

In our domestic bowers ! 
Beneath its mystic shadow rest 

Doves from a far off ancient strand, 
By earth unmarred, by earth unblest, 

Birds of a better land. 
Oh, take thou, then, this simple wreath, 

'T will bear its destined part, 
And ever bloom where thou dost breathe, 

But — place it near thy heart ! 



THE SABBATH 



No day for me has half the charms-, 
So free from care and wild alarms 

As this — the welcome one. 
For me no day so full of joy, 
Of sweet content without alloy 

As this — the hallowed one ! 

No day so rich in peaceful rest, 
So fairly clad, so purely drest, 

As this — the welcome one : 
A robe of righteousness thou hast, 
To clothe the future, as the past, 

Even thou — the hallowed one ! 

Lulled to sweet rest the cattle seem 
In quiet peacefulness to dream 
On this — the welcome one ; 



THE SABBATH. 89 



As if to them there ne'er arose 
A day so full of soft repose 
As this — the hallowed one ! 

For man, thou'st made in earliest days, 
Who, in return, observance pays 

Towards thee — the welcome one ; 
Leaves busy cares of wealth and power, 
To enjoy the calm and sacred hour 

With thee — the hallowed one ! 

The tuneful bell, with solemn call, 
More deeply sounds and musical 

On this — the welcome one ; 
Jnviting sinners to their God 
To hymn his praise, his mercy laud, 

On this — the hallowed one ! 

Ah ! well it is that we should rest 
On this, the holiest and the best, 

On this — the welcome one ; 
The day alone of all the seven, 
We take from earth to give to heaven, 

Even this — the hallowed one ! 



90 THE SABBATH. 

Creation's Lord his fiat past, 
As, pausing from his labor vast, 

On this — the welcome one ; 
Commanded frail and erring man 
His sins confess, his motives scan 

On this — the hallowed one ! 

Let one and all on earth below, 
Before his footstool humbly bow, 

On this — the welcome one : 
Before the throne repentance bring, 
And thankfulness, and praises sing 

On this — the hallowed one ! 



A HYMN 



On the occasion of decking the church with flowers, in comme- 
moration of our Saviour's triumphal entry into Jerusalem. 



With flowers we've wreathed the holy shrine, 

Where now we humbly meet, 
To bend before the Son Divine, 

And worship at his feet. 

The beauty of the opening flower, 

True holiness portrays, 
The fragrance of the blooming flower, 

Its wide encircling rays. 

Then let us throw our garments rude, 
And deck the way with flowers, 

As once the path of Christ was strewed 
With boughs from Kedron's bowers. 



92 A HYMN. 

While entering Zion's doomed wall, 

In meek triumphant state, 
The palm in lowly homage falls, 

To the life-spring consecrate ! 

Pure stream of heavenly breathing love. 

Who taught the sinner faith, 
And rose a conqueror above, 

O'er sin, the grave and death ! 

Come, pour forth songs of gratitude^ 

Devoutly kneeling pray, 
That we may feel the plenitude 

Of his all-glorious sway I 



THE SUMMER'S EVENING WALK. 



How sweet to roam o'er dewy mead, 
In summer's evening hour ; 

To brush the bloom from many a weed, 
And many a closing flower. 

How sweet the balmy air to feel, 
When the sun's retiring ray 

Invites the perfumed dews to steal 
O'er earth's declining day. 

How sweet the warbler's tuneful song, 

As, borne on ambient air, 
She wings her lofty flight along 

To soothe her nestling care. 

How sweet to see the woodbine cling 
With firm tenacious grasp, 

Around the noble forest king, 
The mighty monarch clasp. 



94 

How sweet to hear the watchdog's bark, 

How musical the sound ! 
'Tis loud — now dies away — and mark — 

How echo brings it round. 

How sweet the village maid to watch, 

In posture bending low, 
The warm sweet milky stream to catch, 

And press its ready flow. 

How sweet to view contentment reign, 
And rest, the watchword give ; 

To see through nature's wide domain 
A peaceful calmness live. 

But sweeter far the holy love 

That calmness brings to all, 
Who, e'er before the throne above, 

In adoration fall ! 



TO TIME. 

Oh ! give me back the lily white 
That blanched my virgin brow, 

As lowly at the altar's pale 
I took the nuptial vow. 

Oh ! give me back the rose's blush 

Of maiden modesty, 
That deep beneath the bridal veil 

No eye but his might see. 

Oh ! give me back the glow of health 
That coursed through every vein, 

A purple stream of freshest hue, 
No polished art could feign. 

Oh ! give me back the blithesome step — 

The light elastic tread, 
That bore me o'er the churchyard path, 

The day that I was wed. 



96 TO TIME. 

Oh ! give me back the spirit gay 

Which decked that path with flowers ; 

And thought thou ne'er could' st brush the bloom 
From those bright roseate bowers. 

Thou hast no power now o'er the past, 

Who far those earth-gifts hurled ! 
Still mayst thou bear me, like the flower, 

Unspotted from the world. 

Though o'er my health a blight has gone, 

Sapping the vital vein ; 
Yet streams of charity may flow, 

A purer health to gain. 

Though slow, the once so sprightly step 

May surely now be found, 
Firm on the " Rock of Ages" pressed — 

That consecrated ground ! 

In place of spirits wild, I fain 

Subdued in heart would be — 
A " bruised reed," and lowly bent 

In meek humility. 



to time. 97 



I would not, if I could withdraw, 
Oh ! Time, thy onward flow ; 

Or rob thee of thy garnered sweets, 
For all thou canst bestow ! 

Since on thy restless power I lean, 

A frail and fragile thing ; 
Oh ! bear me to the realms of bliss — 

Gently upon thy wing. 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 



God be with thee, gladsome ocean ! 

How gladly greet I thee once more ! 

* * * * 

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 

A thousand recollections bland, 
Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, 

Re-visit on thy echoing strand. 
ye hopes, that stir within me, 

Health comes with you from above ! 
God is with me, God is in me ! 

I cannot die, if life be love." 

S. T. Coleridge. 



Once more I find myself domiciled in my old 
quarters by the sea — literally the sea. Start not, 
" gentle reader/' nor hastily throw aside these pages, 
when I confess that it is my present intention to 
bring to thine aid and mine, to play its part in 
wiling away the "leaden hours " between sunrise 
and sunset, this subject alone ; — with here and there 
a glimpse of my unworthy self, and a few desultory 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 99 

thoughts, probably little more valuable. But come, 
fair one, clear that pretty brow and smile with me 
along the path of my sejour by the sea and its asso- 
ciations ; though somewhat heavy, the way is short 
and its end peaceful. 

Paying as I do, an annual visit here, it may be 
imagined that I bring with me a sort of home feel- 
ing, and am looked on by the kind people, whose 
accommodations I occupy, as almost a part of their 
household. It is true the rooms are small ; but I 
am a small person, with small means and small 
wants, and bear in mind what my sage aunt Do- 
rothy used with so much energy to impress on my 
youthful attention, when superintending the orderly 
arrangements of my workbox, namely, " that there 
should be a place for everything, and everything in 
its place." In thus acting on the admonition of my 
revered relative, I cannot but acknowledge, at least, 
the consistency of my position; and when I have 
first entered my little drawing-room in a morning, 
with its two small paned square windows, admitting 
the vivifying beams of the early sun ; — watched the 
sweet pea smothering with her false embraces, the 
f2 



100 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

rose, nestling in her shrubby bower, the better to 
display her own flaunting beauties; — inhaled the 
odours of the stock and the briar ; — listened to the 
merry song of the lark, as it mounts from earth to 
heaven, offering with instinctive gratitude the first- 
fruits of its renovated powers to the Giver of Life : 
— with this little chorister, that, as it were, rides upon 
the air and makes the dew its footstool, bearing my 
aspirations with its melody to the Creator and Pre- 
server of all ; I miss not the nightingale, or the light 
of his being, the glow-worm : for while he is steeping 
his little sylvan world in harmony, I am enjoying 
repose and repairing my exhausted frame for the ful- 
filment of the simple duties of the morrow. Then 
comes softly in my pretty little maid, with her blue 
eyes, her fair hair and still fairer complexion, with a 
piled up plate of fresh shrimps, and a " please 
Ma'am, shall I bring in breakfast?" With some- 
times a visit from the good vicar, ever the bearer of* 
some kind remembrance, a few choice apples, the 
best in the world, the fruits of his own grafting, or 
a basket of fine gooseberries under which his trees 
groaned ; I mentally exclaiming, truly that garden 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 101 

is rich in its produce, the soil must surely take on 
itself the privilege of paying tithe for the whole 
parish : — but thus is genuine liberality ever ready to 
hide itself under the cover of an excuse ! Then ever 
and anon comes the dear friend, my spring, my lily 
among flowers, tempting the fastidious palate of the 
dietist with delicacies with which her own careless- 
ness would leave her unprovided, and breathing into 
my ear exotic perfumes in the sayings and doings — 
the pros and cons of the busy world, of which I 
seem, in this quit nook, a calm and unmingling 
spectator ! — And quickly does the hour pass that 
tolls her adieu ! 

How often have I wondered that any one, blest 
with health, vigour and eyesight, who could brave 
with impunity the fresh breezes from the east, plod 
through the heavy sand and ramble over this flat, 
but most fertile country, gathering the wild orchis 
or enriching the Hortus Siccus with indigenous ferns 
and grasses, and when the weather is unfavourable 
may be occupied with books and work and busy 
thoughts, should complain of ennui, I am indeed 
at a loss to think how such persons can find time for 



102 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

dulness. When that happy state was mine, with 
health, strength and unimpaired sight, the day- 
was ever too short, and I bless my God with a 
thankful heart, now that those blessings are de- 
nied me, I have not yet thought the day too long, or 
confessed even to myself that I have found it dull. 

But what is dulness ? can I define it or give its 
lineage ? Dulness surely is the daughter of Igno- 
rance, nursed by Indolence, fed by Vanity, nou- 
rished by Discontent, schooled by Indulgence, 
haunted by Satiety, and, united to Luxury, becomes 
allied to Extravagance > and the parent of Vice ; con- 
temned by the scholar and shunned by the christian. 
But as I do not admit so objectionable a visiter 
under my roof, I will put on my bonnet and boldly 
meet her out of doors. 

I won't pass the short way over the bank, the 
sand being so heavy that the effort it requires 
exhausts my strength before I catch a glimpse 
of the sea. The little lawn looks tempting — I will 
cross it and the bridge and go by the road to the 
principal opening to the sands, which the people 
here call the " starva !" What important event can 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 103 

be about to take place ? For I see the Preventive men 
busily occupied in cleaning and beautifying their 
watch-house ; the bright blue of the interior is al- 
ready completed, glowing in the full glare of nauti- 
cal taste : one of its honest guardians is now giving 
the last snowy touch to the walls, another more ad- 
venturous has mounted the roof, and seated on his 
heels, is scrubbing away with all possible industry 
the dingy shade which time and accident have 
thrown over it, while the bright red tiles blush their 
gratitude to the painstaking tar. The revenue 
cutter is doubtless expected and these preparations 
are for the due reception of that important func- 
tionary, the captain of the coast-guard. Now they 
wheel out the mortar ; the prevention of shipwreck, 
as well as smuggling, being provided for in this 
little armoury. I never see that ingenious, though 
simple, apparatus, without envying the feelings of 
Captain Manby, in the noble consciousness of having 
been, by this admirable invention, the means, under 
providence, of saving the lives of hundreds of his 
fellow-creatures. The ball is attached — the match 
applied — bomb and away, clearing the mark in the 



104 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

centre of the boundary. It is always a pleasure to 
witness the ingenuity of man applied even to experi- 
ments, but when exercised for philanthropic purposes 
or for the preservation of life, proudly do we acknow- 
ledge that truly was man created in the image of his 
maker — for God is love ! 

The sand seems heavier than usual to day, I must 
rest awhile in the shed, " Ah ! how T do you do Mr. 
Sutton? this beautiful day I hope will bring you 
some company." " It would have done, madam, if 
time had been given, but it's all been got up in a 
hurry on purpose V What the purpose was, deponent 
saith not, nor could I guess. Doubtless it was some- 
thing that had very near affinity to the interests of 
the hoary Boniface, for his hair bristled up with 
more than its wonted tenacity, and it seemed that a 
darker shade came over the crimson of his cheek. 
The Sutton, it should be premised, is a sort of heir- 
loom of the place : the ancestral bones of three or 
four generations of the present and last scion of the 
vine-stock, repose in the village churchyard, proba- 
bly all reared under the auspices of the " Jolly Bac- 
chus," that ivy-crowned god being appropriately the 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 105 

presiding deity that watches over the fates and for- 
tunes of many a rustic delinquent here. 

A quaint place is that village Auberge, rivalling 
Mont Blanc in the whiteness of its walls, and the 
far-famed Schiedam in the genuineness of its spirit. 
A worthy handmaid, too, of the grape-loving son of 
Semele is dame Sutton, as she froths up the brim- 
ming tankard, to the full heart's content of the 
thirsty applicant; enjoying also the character of 
being held in high repute for miles round, as a 
" very clever woman ;" one who will courtesy to the 
'squire, and flatter the son — broil for the epicure — 
brew soft silky punch for the bon-vivant, and spice for 
the wayfarer. In short, she is generally admitted to be 
a manager. And it is even bruited about sotto voce, 
that mine host himself, the fine hale, healthy veteran 
of seventy summers, and moreover her wedded lord, 
is not considered beyond the limits of her sove- 
reignty. Be that as it may, it is a matter of pure 
conjugal interest, and a subject with which the pub- 
lic and I have nothing to do. One other morceau 
of scandal is, however, more loudly spoken of. Oh ! 
when will that mischievous minx, scandal, I mean, 
f 5 



106 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

be banished from the great community ? It is this— 
that as the world began to smile on the thriving 
hostess, she, somewhat uncourteously it must be 
allowed, began to frown on the world ; and it is said, 
that only a few choice spirits now bask in the sun- 
shine, that erst lent so powerful an aid in filling the 
coffers of this most zealous of Bacchantes. 

' { I am glad to recognize an old acquaintance ; 
the shed is large enough for us both. Sit still, 
Roaby, and tell me if the cough is better, and how 
the good wife is, and the tame rabbits V 

" And sure, madam, you're very good to remem- 
ber us at all ; the old woman is pretty tolerable, 
considering her years and rheumatism, and as for 
my rabbits I have got this bundle of fresh grass as a 
treat for them, poor things ! But my cough gets no 
better ma'am, and never will on this cold coast ! It 
seems hard work, after a life spent in the service of 
my king and country, to have, at threescore years of 
age, with health and strength wasted by long hard- 
ships, to turn out in bitter nights, snowing and hail- 
ing like fury, and with a nor'easterly wind cutting 
in your teeth, and a cough shaking every muscle in 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 107 

your frame ! I would not complain of my superior 
officers, for they must know better how to manage 
things than a poor ignorant old man like me, and I 
dare say it is no easy matter to govern such a great 
country as this and please everybody ! But after 
nearly half a century of bufFetting against the ele- 
ments, braving many climates, and I hope I may say 
without boasting, stoutly fighting the enemy, oh ! 
madam, it is a sorrowful feeling for an old worn out 
sailor to be obliged to think after all that he has 
done little, not to have earned a quiet birth at the 
last !" 

My heart ached while it responded to the old 
man's wailing, as I replied, " True, my good Roaby, 
life is indeed a { vale of tears f but though the reed 
is bent it shall not be broken, the Lord loveth whom 
he chasteneth, and they who sow in tears shall reap 
in joy." 

" That, madam, is the anchor of my trust, with- 
out it I should have been shipwrecked long ago, it 
keeps me above board as I may say, and through 
God's blessing, will in the end, steer me safe into 
port!" 



108 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

Thou art unlettered, Roaby, yet would I rather 
have thy humble faith, asking no question for con- 
science sake, than the scholastic dogmatism of the 
most argumentative divine I 

At length I have overcome the heavy sand, and 
can enjoy a firm footing on this unrivalled shore — 
unrivalled in its visible extent, and in the hardness 
and the beauty of its sands : and there, spreading out 
before me in the full majesty of power, earth's twin 
sister — the boundless and unfathomable ocean. 
How almost incredible is it to behold and believe, 
that its base is of the same nature as the surface of the 
earth ; that it has rocks, caverns, plains, springs and 
rivers; now instead of inhabiting an island, an 
isolated spot, to fancy oneself perched on the top of 
some mount Ida or Olympas, and worshipped by the 
finny tribe, as of a conclave of divinities; then to know 
that it rivals the air in its phosphorescent properties 
as well as in its fire-flies. And who can tell if the 
sea-nymphs don't, like the land-nymphs of the west, 
place them as gems in their hair, and amid the sylvan 
scenes of trees, bushes, plants and herbs, dance by 
their light to the piping shell, or illuminate with 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 109 

them the silver caves and coral palaces of their un- 
fathomable depths ? Not the least peculiarity of the 
sea is the buoyancy of its water, said to be occasioned 
by its saltness ; a pound of water containing two 
ounces of salt. In proof of this, the following extra- 
ordinary story has been related to me. 

One boisterous day, in the month of November, 
a fisherman, named John Bell, mounted his horse, 
not a Bucephalus, but a steady useful steed, that had 
weathered many a rough wave, and did not shrink 
from his duty on this perilous day. Net in hand he 
sallied forth, but had not proceeded far on his am- 
phibious course, before the already towering clouds 
gathered into momentous darkness ; the wind raised 
its mighty voice, and the ocean responded to the 
call. Amidst this war of elements on rode the un- 
daunted fisherman. Meanwhile, the danger of his 
position under the impending storm, brought many of 
the villagers on the beach, some from curiosity, and 
some from anxiety for his welfare. Earnestly did 
they watch the movements of the seafarer as he 
was borne along, sometimes on, and sometimes 
under the treacherous waves, further and further out 



110 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 



to sea, lessening gradually to the view, till a mere 
dark speck was alone visible. A moment it was gone 
— then re-appeared on the back of a monstrous wave, 
here an atom — there a nothing ! The interest 
became intense, but no one dare venture to the 
rescue, and no boat in that little port could live in 
such a sea, though many was the prayer whispered 
from kind hearts among the spectators, for the 
safety of their neighbour. Hours passed by, that 
did but increase the anxiety. At length the tide 
began to rise, and the speck was hailed by the 
watchers as larger and more distinct; each roll of 
the disturbed waters now brought it nearer, and 
the grateful exclamation escaped, " thank God he is 
not lost V 3 The form became still more distinct — the 
features were recognized — one bound and back again 
— another and another furious wave threw from its 
ungracious grasp, the long watched object of so 
much anxiety, John Bell, the fisherman, alive cer- 
tainly, but exhausted and almost insensible, having, 
by the buoyancy of the water, been borne for the 
space of two hours, astride a dead horse." 

Another version of the story is, that the life-boat 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. Ill 

was had recourse to, and reached the poor sufferer 
just as he was sinking, dragged down by the weight 
of the net, with his horse under the water, which 
had been long dead and floated side upwards, to 
which its rider shifted himself, and thus clung to 
life with the tenacity natural to man, for the space 
of two hours ! 

What a field to explore with the different grades 
of living things that move in its wonderful element, 
in number, rivalling the grains of sand on its beach, 
and variable as the leaves of the vegetable world, with 
its graceful nautilus, its magnificent amphitrite, its 
peacock-hued mouse. But it would be vain to parti- 
cularize, for had I the pen of a Cuvier or a Lamarck, 
the limits of this little article would not allow me to 
follow the gradations from the kraken and the 
whale that sport among the icebergs of the north, to 
the vecchian mite, offered at the shrine of vanity, 
and the tiny self-immolating zoophite of the south 
seas, whose sepulchres are a formidable barrier, and, 
not unfrequently, prove a source of consternation to 

* The above circumstance occurred only three years ago, on the 
coast of Theddlethorpe, in Lincolnshire, and can be corroborated 
by several eye witnesses. 



112 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATION'S. 



the navigator, and even form islands large enough 
for the habitation of man. How wondrous, that a 
colony of insects, small as the eye can distinguish, 
should be the foundation of a colony of human 
beings, in whom their Creator has not only breathed 
the breath of life, but whom he has endowed with 
souls to be saved, through the atonement of his 
Son, and the grace of his Spirit ! 

Thou art indeed a glorious object ! Oh ! in- 
comparable daughter of Chaos, equal in myste- 
ry, superior in all else. To thee pays tribute, 
every stream of this fair planet, from the sweet 
waters of the inundating Nile, to the measured 
trickling of the waning Ilissus — the far-famed and 
ever interesting Ilissus ! To thy maternal care the 
Danube brings its gold, and the Genii its silver, the 
sacred Ganges its fruits in the votive offerings of 
piety, pure though mistaken, and the Euphrates its 
palms. Then from Britain's rebellious child, the 
west, comes the St. Laurence with his timber, and 
the opaque and turbid waters of the Missouri, with 
its rich alluvia and ashes of the burning Prairie. 
Where is the subject that pays thee not tribute, or 
the power that is not subservient to thine ? Thou 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 113 

enterest uninvited the secret recesses of the cave of 
Fingal, and washest the ruins of Tintagel; thou 
formest the roost of Sumburgh — watchest the cradle 
of Noss, and nursest the ox-eye off the cape. Thou 
blushest beneath the rose-hued mountains of the 
east, and turnest pale under the snow-clouds of the 
west. And, as the world is ever marrying and giving 
in marriage, so wert thou espoused to the city of 
islands, with its costly churches, its mosque-like St. 
Mark, adorned with the far travelled horses of 
bronze ; its proud piazza, its stepless tower, its lofty 
lion, its trading Rialto, its glassy streets and its 
narrow pave ; with its Doges' palace shrouding the 
mock justice of its famed ubiquitous council of ten ; 
its maddening dungeons, and its bridge of sighs, 
whose every stone seems to vibrate with the groans 
of its victims. That city, at whose altar was offered 
pride, power, wealth, beauty and death ; in itself a 
republic, with its days of commerce, and its nights of 
crime. Vain boaster ! — remembering its presumption, 
while acknowledging its punishment ; well may we 
exclaim over the crumblings of Venice, how are the 
mighty fallen ! Thou coolest the streaming lava of 



114 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

Vesuvius, and warmest by the gulf-stream of Florida; 
thou carriest health to the pestilential Sierra 
Leone, as to the salubrious clime of Italy; thou 
dispersest invading armaments, bearest away the 
noble forest, (an evidence of which appears on this 
very spot at low water, in immense roots of solid oak 
embedded deep in the sand, and extending for some 
miles along the shore,) and sparest not the sanctuary 
of the dead ; thou who dost mirror on thy breast, 
aerial palaces and groves, cradlest on thy buoyant 
bosom ships of Tarshish and the Isles — mighty men 
of war, and the great leviathan of steam, that boils 
and hisses, and leaves a blackened track, like some 
vile engine from the nether world! Even now, 
without the eye of a Schriften, I see one at the 
boundary of the horizon; nay, from some optical 
illusion or atmospheric influence, it seems borne at 
a distance above the sea, and goes foaming and 
tearing away on its darkened course, as if impelled 
by some unearthly power, or some demon of the 
fates. By thy aid, the enterprising Phoenician 
carried on his extensive commerce with the world, 
adorning many a distant monarch with his pre- 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 115 

cious purple. Thou barest the Great Alexander 
and his modern self-styled "parallel" Bonaparte, to 
plant their laurels on the walls of Egypt, and, while 
yet the hero was written on the brow, hadst power 
to stamp coward on the heart; thou barest Ceesar 
to glory, and Pompey to death ; Ulysses through the 
Syren's wiles, and the sage Nestor from the Xlion 
war ; Telemachus from the fascinations of Calypso^ 
and iEneas from the burning love of Dido. Thou 
didst witness the desolation of Marius, and the 
patriotism of Cimon ; mingle with the tears of The- 
mistocles, and receive in gore the head of the brave 
Cyrus; drink the conquering blood of an Aber- 
crombie and a Nelson ; and bear through storm and 
calm, through opposition, danger and difficulties, 
the undaunted Columbus, aiding him to place the 
inquisitorial standard on the shores of the western 
world. Oh ! Britain, dim was thy foresight, and 
clouded was thy judgment, when thou, idly resting 
on thine oars, permittedst to be hailed, Ferdinand 
and Isabella joint sovereigns of the newly dis- 
covered continent. 

As God maketh his sun to rise on the evil as on 



116 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

the good ; so dost thou, oh ! Ocean, bear the wicked 
as well as the righteous to the accomplishment of 
his purposes, equally in safety and in victory — the 
daring pirate, who tears the husband from the wife — 
the child from the parent — and all from their 
country; the young to disgrace — the old to servi- 
tude, most to ignominy, and many to death ! aiding 
him to carry on a traffic, which humanity recoils 
from, and Christianity condemns ; as the more ac- 
knowledged marauder, who invades the territories 
of his fellow, alike incurs the awful denunciation 
pronounced on him who shall remove his neighbour's 
land-mark. Yet dost thou sanctify thy waters by 
bearing the hallowed freight of the gospel, with its 
life-giving light to the darkened sons of earth, that 
a Paul might plant and an Apollos water the im- 
mortal seed, which can alone bear fruit acceptable 
to God. Favoured by him who holdeth the waters 
in the hollow of his hand, thou hadst power to pre- 
vail ; " the fountains of the great deep were broken 
up and the windows of heaven were opened f' not 
only every living thing upon the face of the earth, 
but the earth itself, " and all the high hills were 



THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. L17 

covered," all but one little vessel set apart for 
the Lord ! Again, at the lifting up of the rod 
of Moses, thy waters divided and became a wall on 
the right hand and on the left, when the pastoral 
people of God with their loins girded and the staff 
in their hands, walked through on dry land, with 
their flocks and their herds and their much cattle : 
and when the divine symbol was once more stretched 
out, thou returnedst to thy strength ; overwhelming 
the unrelenting taskmasters, their chariots and their 
horsemen in thy great abyss — those depths, where 
lay entombed in the body of a fish, breathing only 
through its vitality, Jonah, the unfaithful prophet, 
yet type of him promised to the erring mother of 
mankind, who should " bruise the serpent's head" — 
the mediator for man at the throne of mercy — the 
resurrection and the life ! Surely it is good for me 
to be here, and no need to build an altar, for every 
wave is an altar, whose ceaseless roar to the end of 
time, laden with the christian's hopes and the light 
of faith, will ascend, like a sweet smelling savour, to 
the Lamb, who will present it pure to the Searcher 
of hearts ! 






118 THE SEA AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 

I have passed many hours of peaceful happiness 
alone on this coast, and have never failed to find the 
sea, as a companion, harmonious and interesting — 
as a climate, salubrious and invigorating — as a 
friend, soothing, varied and instructive. Oh ! that 
1 may ever approach it with a mind capable of en- 
joying its glorious associations and perfections, con- 
tent with the simple pleasures of its shores, and with 
wishes bounded by what is graciously vouchsafed by 
him, who doeth all things well ! 

In the storm I hail the power of the Word; in 
the calm I behold the Spirit of Peace. As the tides 
retire at the call, so every billow seems to bend in 
adoration of its Maker. In each and all I see the 
might, majesty and dominion of a God, present, 
visible, Omniscient ! 

[No imputation is intended by any remarks occurring in the 
above essay, to be thrown by any party, on the government, 
or other authorities connected with the management of the Pre- 
ventive service. I have learnt that seamen who have been em- 
ployed in this service upwards of ten years, are entitled to a super- 
annuation pension, those under that time receive a gratuity varying 
according to circumstances. Any of the officers or crew who may 
be wounded in the discharge of their duty, receive a pension or 
gratuity according to the nature of their wounds, andt he families of 
any dying under similar circumstances are variously provided for.] 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

Oh ! take me back to thy heart again, 
That the wanderer ne'er may roam 

Far from affection's love-lit smile, 
Far from the joys of home. 

From thence to roam no charms invited, 
No star to point a brighter course ; 

But kindred ties that bore me hence, 
With an untold yearning force. 

Full many a year has onward rolled 
O'er me and thee its chequered way, 

Apart from the friends of other days, 

Through winter's cloud — as summer's ray. 

Still memory gilds the pictured past, 

With a radiance not its own, 
And happier hours will fade by those 

That on Time's gay wing have flown. 



120 



THE WANDERER^ RETURN. 



Borne thus on hope, as in youth gone by, 
I have sought my native bowers, 

Fondly to cull from the cherished soil 
Sweets from its fragrant flowers. 

O'er hill and dale I 've crossed to that spot 
Where I drew my earliest breath ; 

I have been — I have sought, and have found 
But the chill cold welcome of death ! 

Strangers, alas ! dwell now in that home, 
And wreathe round it many a flower, 

Yet none blooms so fair or so sweet, 
As those erst in my dear native bower. 

Autumn's wild blast has swept o'er the scene, 
And tinged, with her nut-brown dye, 

Each leaf and blade in its vernal hue, 
That droop at her withering sigh. 



And o'er the tomb I have bent me low, 
Like the lone willow weeping, 

The hallowed dust of parents — brothers, 
In tears of anguish steeping. 



THE WANDEREfi's RETURN. 121 

Sweet, yet melancholy pilgrimage ! 

From thee have I turned with pain ; 
But the smile and the voice of love beam forth, 

And hushed is each sorrowing strain. 

Take me then back to thy heart once more, 

That the wanderer ne'er may roam, 
And, pillowed there, may calmly await 

The call to her last long home. 



HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. 



Home of my childhood ! how joyful and gay — 
How clear was the morn, how bright was the day, 

That beamed o'er my earliest life ; 
Smiles of affection encompassed me round, 
And accents of love, in sweet thrilling sound, 

Spake freedom from sorrow and strife. 

Home of my childhood ! thou temple of ease, 
From life's busy storms, the haven of peace, 

For such wert thou ever to me ; 
Man's bitter words, and the world's ready frown, 
Empty ambition, and fleeting renown, 

Alike passed unheeded with thee. 

Home of my childhood ! thou sunny green spot, 
Within thy sweet bowers how blissful my lot — 

Untroubled, unvexed with a care ; 
But transient, alas, that meteor bright 
Shone brilliant awhile, then sank into night, 

And left me the cypress to wear. 



HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. 123 

Home of my childhood ! how changed art thou now; 
How faded the joys that wofully bow 

Beneath the stern hand of decay ; 
Sweet flowers that circled my earliest years, 
Dissolving to sad and sorrowful tears, 

Now float o'er my desolate way. 

Home of my childhood ! I bid thee adieu, 

Where all once was dear, where friends were so true, 

Thy portal I turn from in pain : 
Where'er I may roam, where'er my steps bend, 
No home to my heart such pleasures can lend 

As thine I now mourn o'er in vain. 

Home of my childhood ! one rival thou hast 
To compensate still for happiness past — 

My heart to devotion inspire ; 
The " Star from the East" my pilot shall be, 
To lead me to joys eternal and free — 

The home of my future desire. 



g2 



PRAYER. 



Oh ! listen, Thou, the Holy One ! 
While I, the lone and weary one, 

To Thee, Eternal, pray; 
Confess myself the sinful one 
To Thee, the true forgiving One — 

Oh ! listen, while I pray. 

Turn not thine ear, Thou Mighty One ! 
From me, the low repentant one, 

While I in earnest pray ; 
Close not thine eye, Omniscient One ! 
But pitying see the unworthy one, 

Who dares before Thee pray. 

Hide not thy face, Thou Glorious One ! 
From me, the weak and mortal one ; 

Inspire my heart to pray. 
Enlighten, Thou Celestial One ! 
Oh ! 'lighten me, the darkened one — 

Accept me when I pray. 



PRAYER. 125 

Leave — leave me not, Parental One ! 
The child of wrath, the sinning one — ■■ 

Reject me not, I pray. 
Oh ! pardon now the erring one, 
Thou pure, divine, and perfect One, 

Though guilty as I pray. 

Thou great " I am," Immortal One ! 
Mysterious Godhead, Three in One ! 

Oh ! teach me e'er to pray. 
Receive me through the Atoning One ; 
Make me, through Him, a chosen one ; 

Oh ! bless me as I pray. 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 



" O what a loud and fearful shriek was there, 
As though a thousand souls, one death groan poured." 

S. T. Coleridge. 



It was a cold winter's evening in the month of 
December, when the inmates of a small inn, situated 
in a retired part of the north of England, having 
duly seen all exterior duties performed, the various 
animals of the establishment suppered, and the 
doors of the many treasuries secured, had just 
assembled to enjoy the warmth of the interior, and 
revel undisturbed in the luxuries of the season. The 
fire threw out its cheering and exhilirating glare, 
lighting up the faces of the honest folk that reposed 
on the antiquated wooden benches in the chimney 
corner, basking, with no small satisfaction, in its 
soothing influence, unmindful of the world — them- 
selves a world. 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 127 

Short lived calm ! the sound of horses' feet and a 
loud knocking at the door broke in upon and dis- 
turbed the sleep-wakers, announcing the arrival of a 
visiter. Immediately all were astir, the stable boy 
up in an instant, hastened to receive the steed, and 
the landlord to welcome its rider. After much 
unsatisfactory examination of the traveller, whose 
muffled, and it must be allowed, somewhat suspi- 
cious appearance, resisted all attempts to gratify 
curiosity ; with some solemnity, coloured with as 
much dignity as the good Boniface could throw over 
his portly person, he preceded his guest into the 
kitchen, who walking up to the fire, took off his hat, 
and astonished the assembly by giving liberty to a 
profusion of naturally jet black hair, now glistening 
in a partial covering of hoar-frost. This singular 
appearance, added to the moustache a la militaire, 
and the dark hue of a complexion bronzed by a 
tropical sun, caused not a little consternation among 
the group; until the stranger, in a tone of calm 
authority, accustomed to command, begged the land- 
lord would assist him in disencumbering himself of 
his cloak, and thus brought that worthy personage 



128 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

to a sense of his position and his policy. Thus re- 
lieved, a fine stately person, and gentlemanly deport- 
ment, became perceptible to the dull eye of Giles Good- 
man, which turned a significant look on his better 
half, who rose with all the officiousness and tact with 
which the landlady is so familiar, apologized for the 
absence of fire in the parlour, made an immediate 
offer to light one, and showered many expressions of 
anxiety for the comfort and well being of the gentle- 
man, on whose countenance she soon began to think 
was an expression and a shrewdness that betrayed old 
acquaintance. These civilities were however declined, 
as he preferred the full rich glow of the kitchen corner, 
to the unyielding fuel and the chill damp atmosphere 
of an uninhabited apartment. Placing himself there- 
fore in the seat of honor, which means the landlord^ 
own particular cherished nook, he in his turn dis- 
placing the good dame, a similar compliment passing 
on, even as far as the little fag-end ; — the guest en- 
quired, with some interest, how stood the larder of 
the " Abbey Arms V for the cold christmas air had 
sharpened his appetite ; what could he have to eat, 
and when ? The cheering intelligence was forthwith 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 129 

communicated, that a pig had just been slaughtered, 
and was even now rejoicing in its conservative brine. 
This circumstance was certainly open to objection, as 
the guest happened to be a whig ; the difficulty how- 
ever was overcome by learning that the sapient 
friend of both parties had benevolently produced a 
plentiful supply of ingredients for those mysterious 
amalgamations, which we call sausages. These, 
judiciously appointed by the thrifty housewife, now 
hung in the most inviting festoons around the 
kitchen, and were accordingly speedily appropriated 
to the use of the stranger, together with a few snowy 
eggs, choice delicacies in this ungenial weather. 

The knight, for such he was, sat silently watching, 
with unconscious gaze, these preparations for his 
evening meal : the warmth had soothed his feelings, 
and memory was now busy in retracing images of 
the past, and dwelling in vague speculations on the 
uncertainties of the future. Roused at length by the 
savoury fumes that steamed and hissed over the fire, 
his attention was brought back and fixed on the 
perishable things of the present ; and willingly did 
he lend his energies to their dismissal. Having 
g5 



130 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

despatched, what epicures do not despise, and to 
the hungry are dainties, he called for a tankard of 
ale, true Christmas home-brewed ale, such as was 
wont to grace that board, sugared and spiced meet 
for the palate of a monk. After a time, thawing 
into cordiality of all the most really enjoyed by 
hearts warmed by long acquaintance or early associa- 
tions, he invited the landlord to join him and drink 
to the toast of " Auld lang syne," its joys and its 
merriment. With hearty goodwill did the rubicund 
face of mine host respond to so pleasant an appeal, 
remarking in his turn, that he could not but think 
that the face of the gentleman was not quite strange 
to him. 

" It must be greatly altered indeed if it be so," 
replied the knight, " for it has many a time hailed 
yours with all the delight of boyhood, coaxed you 
to let him mount the baron's old hunter, Firefly, 
and dragged you over copse and green, to some 
spot where he might, unquestioned and unmolested, 
discharge your fowling-piece, never certainly to the 
destruction of game, though often to your dismay, 
and the imminent peril of his own life." 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 131 

" Surely then, you are Master Hubert, that daring 
mischievous young gentleman ? " 

"Too true Giles, and many a scrape and mis- 
chance have those propensities brought me into, I 
assure you : hardships and suffering of various kinds 
have been my lot in climate and military privations 
since those days — but here I am again, thank God ! 
escaped from all, and not the worse for experience, 
returned to re-visit my old haunts, and I trust yet to 
die in old England." 

' ' Amen," and a long pull at the tankard was the 
only reply. A short silence ensued, in which both 
seemed absorbed in painful reflection. 

At length the knight with an effort said, " And 
now Giles, tell me all the news, and what the changes 
that have taken place since we last met, and above all, 
what of the Abbey ? Strange rumours have reached 
me, but report is so deceitful a tell-tale, that I 
cannot believe all she says." 

" Ah ! Master Hubert, sad indeed are the changes 
there, it would make your heart ache to hear all 
that's happened since you used to frolic about that 
once happy place. The baron was always said to be 



32 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 



a little wildish, but as long as my lady lived, her 
gentleness and excellence kept him in check, as I 
may say ; for you know, sir, vice somehow or other 
is always afraid of virtue — though I ought to ask his 
honor's pardon for speaking so harsh about him : 
for he was always a kind friend to me when he had the 
means ; and God knows, if he wanted a bit of bread 
now, I would divide my own loaf freely with him. 
But truth is truth, Master Hubert, and I hope among 
friends may never be ashamed of itself : and she, sir, 
the dear good lady, was all truth, a friend to the 
fatherless, and visited the widow; it seemed that 
she was too good indeed for this world, for she has 
been dead these many years." 

" She is then really dead?" said the knight, " but 
go on." 

" Dead indeed, as every poor heart hereabouts, 
that has so often been cheered by her sweet voice, 
can too well testify, and all is silent now, that used to 
speak of comfort and consolation. She was buried 
in the family vault at the Abbey. The baron 
grieved sadly for my lady at first, for how could he 
help grieving for what all around him deplored ! 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 133 

He did not stay long in the country, but went to 
live in London, and there it is said he got into bad 
company, and spending his time among jockeys and 
gamblers, who, as might have been expected, very 
soon ruined him ; and after cutting down all the old 
wood on the estate, and selling everything that he 
had the power of doing, except the furniture of a 
few rooms, he came down, and has ever since lived 
at the Abbey, avoiding all company, and seldom 
stirring out." 

" And he is still living there in that melancholy 
condition? What a change from the cheerfulness 
and abundance of former days." 

"It is indeed, sir, but this is not all, for" 
— approaching nearer to his companion and speaking 
in a low voice, — " strange noises are heard at nights 
— the servants are afraid to move along the passages, 
and nobody ever thinks of going near the old place 
after nightfall." 

" What ! " said the knight, with an incredulous 
smile, " do you mean to say, Giles, that the Abbey 
is haunted?" 

" Why, sir," said Giles, somewhat checked by the 



134 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

manner of his companion,, " I cannot say much from 
my own experience, having never myself seen the 
ghost, but I will tell you what others have seen, and 
told me as facts not to be disputed. Every night since 
my lady died, there has been heard the most beau- 
tiful music, like angels' voices, proceeding from the 
Abbey chapel, which has never been used for service 
since that time, and is now quite desolate, and they 
say falling into decay ; and while this music lasts, 
and at this time of the year, when the nights are 
dark and stormy, a brilliant and most unearthly light 
is seen streaming along from the ground close to the 
abbey walls. At midnight, too, a tall slight figure, 
apparently of a female, dressed all in white, and 
shining with unnatural brightness, is seen flitting 
about the house, sometimes close to the windows — 
sometimes at a distance — and what can this be if 
not a ghost ? the spirit of the dear lady that cannot 
rest, while the home of her youth is crumbling into 
ruins ! The music too — who is there, within those 
walls, happy enough to sing ? And for the light, 
how can those in bed hours before, and at the top 
of the building, cause a blaze to come out of its very 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 135 

foundations ? — or if so, what object could they have in 
so doing, for there's only just hands enough to supply 
the wants of the baron, and those chiefly old ones ? 
Oh ! no, sir," said honest Giles, shaking his head 
with much solemn sagacity, " depend upon it there 
is mystery hard to be understood ; but I say nothing 
and only thank God that I have a clear conscience, 
have not wasted my little inheritance, and never wil- 
lingly or knowingly harmed anybody." He then 
treated his conscience for so rare an excellence by 
another sip of the spiced ale, and the pleasure of be- 
holding his rosy face in the bottom of the tankard. 

" Long may this enviable conviction be yours, my 
good friend, and all the attendant comforts of its 
consequences — -but for the old Abbey — what you 
have told me is strange and mournful, though I 
cannot, like you, attribute the appearances and 
occurrences you name to any supernatural cause, or 
imagine for a moment that the delinquencies or 
neglects of any human being could be permitted to 
have power to disturb the repose of a pure and 
blessed spirit." 

The guest then relapsed into a reverie from which 



136 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

he was at length aroused by a stir, signifying pre- 
parations for the night's rest. The family accord- 
ingly retired, leaving him alone with his landlord, 
to whom he then said, " Your account of the Abbey 
and its once to me very dear inhabitants has given 
me more pain than I can well describe, and con- 
trary, I dare say, to your expectations has rather 
increased than repressed my desire to visit it once 
again. I shall therefore write two or three lines to 
the baron telling him where I am and requesting 
permission to wait on him tomorrow, and I will 
thank you to send my note over to the Abbey early 
in the morning. If I have the opportunity I shall 
stay there for a few days, when I hope I shall be 
able to cheer the baron, and make acquaintance with 
his neighbours, the ghosts." 

So saying, and with a smiling " good night," he 
left poor Giles looking the picture of consternation, 
and mournfully bewailing the rashness of inexpe- 
rience and its inevitable consequences — ill-fortune 
and a too late repentance — but as it was of no avail 
helping him who would not help himself, Giles 
Goodman sought his pillow. 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 187 

With the morning came various occupations, 
among them that of conveying the note to the 
Abbey ; the reply to which is imagined to have been 
in the affirmative, as the knight, after strolling 
about the well-remembered country, giving to each 
nook and corner some interest as the scene of infan- 
tine mischief or boyish sport, Giles playing his 
accustomed part in the double capacity of attendant 
and playfellow, at length entered on the imme- 
diate path to his destination. Bereft as it was 
of wood, within which it was wont to shrink into 
very insignificance, the grey monastic pile soon be- 
came visible — the monument rather of the disgrace 
of its proprietor, than the representative of greatness 
or of power. 

As he advanced, the scene appeared one of un- 
mixed silence and desolation, unbroken but by the 
sound of his horse's feet and the faint echo that re- 
verberated. No sign of life was visible — no human 
form presented itself to the view, and no verdant 
leaf welcomed him to the home of his boyhood; 
as he approached the door, however, bolts were 
heard writhing from their fastnesses, bars were 



138 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

withdrawn and the old butler appeared, grey and 
venerable as his master, whose fortunes he had fol- 
lowed through weal and woe, and was now tottering 
with him along the same path to the tomb — by him 
the knight was led to the presence of the baron. 
The evening that began with a very unpromising 
aspect, embued as it was with many a mournful 
regret and pang of remorse, improved in cheerful- 
ness as it advanced, enlivened by tales of foreign 
lands and strange adventures, with which the guest 
sought to amuse and interest his host; who after 
a brief allusion to his departed lady, seemed studi- 
ously to avoid speaking of his own position or affairs, 
and not till the former found himself alone in his 
bed-room did he permit himself to reflect on the 
objects around him, or to compare the present with 
the past. But now, as he drew the heavy oaken chair 
to the fire and the feeling of restraint was dissi- 
pated ; he pondered long and deeply on the gloomy 
desolation in which all there seemed enveloped, 
shuddering even then with the chill that went to his 
very heart, as he traversed the long passages that 
led to his dormitory. 



THE ABBEY &HOST. 139 

There, in that lonely chamber, with silence and 
ruin his only associates, and thoughts, busier than 
welcome, his companions, did the mysterious tales of 
Giles Goodman recur to his mind. At first he smiled 
at the fertility of an imagination that could picture, 
and the simplicity that could believe in, such absur- 
dities; vainly endeavouring to account for appear- 
ances that had raised such phantoms, to the immi- 
nent peril of rustic sense and the felicity of noc- 
turnal security. Gradually, however, the subject 
deepened into shade ; the thing was strange, to say 
the least of it; and at length fairly settled into 
the gloom which pervaded the whole atmosphere. 
Though unwilling to confess it, even to himself, the 
knight, valiant as he was, quailed beneath the 
prospect of a supernatural visitation ! He turned 
his head cautiously round and gathering courage 
from the assurance of perfect solitude, he made a 
tour of examination of his apartment, and, stirring 
up the fire, manfully resolved to go to bed. But 
not so easy was it to find, as to seek the capricious 
soother ; and sleep would not now befriend the coax- 
ing devotee, whose mind seemed provokingly to take 



140 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

pleasure in dwelling on the most gloomy subjects 
and picturing phantoms in every nicker on the 
hearth. The dense crimson velvet that decorated 
the room, with its coat of time and neglect was 
dismal and cheerless ; and the hearse-like plume he 
thought ever and anon bent as in sorrow for the 
past, or in ominous forebodings of the future. The 
dark oak of the doors with their deep impannellings, 
the ponderous chimney-piece with its cyclopian 
ornaments, became animated by the furtive eye of 
the gazer, while the figures on the tapestry assumed 
an appalling aspect to his perverted sense, wan- 
derers in the subterranean dominions of Eblis — 
himself a Vathek. The wind, too, sent forth its 
dismal dirge, moaning in varied modulations around 
the shorn building. 

At length his eye rested on a Grecian temple, one 
of the representations on the tapestried walls, the 
door of which he thought moved — the aperture 
became larger, when he, wide awake, distinctly saw 
a figure, tall and white, and bearing a lamp. It came 
slowly forward, closed the door and paused — then 
advanced to the fire, and passing on approached the 



THE ABBEY GliOST. 141 

bed for an instant, then crossed the floor and 
noiselessly disappeared. Could this really be ? 
Doubt and conjecture were unavailing; and after 
tossing much on his couch of unrest, exhausted he 
fell asleep. 

The morning brought with it returning courage, 
many reflections, and much reasoning, followed by 
a determination that another similar scene should 
find him more self-possessed, and a resolution to 
accompany his fair visiter in her nocturnal ramble. 
The day he thought would never be over, so anxious 
was he to test his new-born courage. Impatiently 
did he go through the routine of the Abbey occupa- 
tions and duties. Unable to exert himself for the 
amusement of the baron, he early in the evening 
feigned illness and begged permission to retire ; and 
there once more in his solitary chamber, he gave full 
rein to his fancy, which played and pondered, wan- 
dered and explained, 'till the hour of midnight 
approached : 

The hour, 'tis said, when spirits walk the earth 
That cannot rest within the narrow home 
Death gives to finite man. 



142 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 



Fearing that his visiter should find him unpre- 
pared, he threw himself hastily on his bed and en- 
deavoured to calm his mind for the undertaking that 
he contemplated. Unweariedly he listened, but 
caught no sound save the throbbings of his own 
heart, less valiant to meet an unarmed and harm- 
less spectre than a sanguinary foe on the field of 
battle. But the door — the temple consecrated to 
Fear — behold its priestess ! Gently as before did she 
step forth, lamp in hand — stay a moment at the 
fire — to the window — again softly cross the apart- 
ment and disappear. A breath, and the knight was 
up, quickly at the door, which he now readily disco- 
vered, and with some difficulty descended a flight of 
stairs, stiunbling at almost every step, over the 
broken and crumbling way. The white figure, how- 
ever, was still to be seen, apparently meeting with 
no obstacle, or overcoming readily every difficulty 
that might offer itself to impede her progress. On 
they went, reached the bottom and entered an open 
corridor, traversed one side, turned the corner ; 
quick as a falcon darted the spectre, and entered a 
door, which brought them into the Abbey chapel. 



THE ABBEY 'GHOST. 143 

A shudder here came across the knight, who crept 
into every shadow that presented itself, as his guide, 
with apparent awe and solemnity, softly glided 
through, and again began to descend steps. The 
knight was breathless, and feared that his chase 
would prove fruitless — but no, caution was shown 
again, and they proceeded slowly, though at a dis- 
tance ; the knight endeavouring to keep clear of the 
lamp, and they stood once more on a flat surface ; 
but it was the floor of a vault. Here then, in the 
family burying place, did the warrior find himself 
closetted with his supernatural companion. Every- 
thing around him smelled damp and unearthly, and 
the chill of death seemed to curdle his very life- 
blood. 

Fearing to lose the thread that might lead him 
out of this labyrinth, he did not venture to advance, 
but there at the entrance, quietly awaited the 
sequel; carefully and anxiously watching the 
movements of his guide, who appeared now to lose 
the dignity and self-possession that he thought had 
before characterized her. The small lamp she held 
but dimly lighted the sepulchral room, but the eye 



144 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

that watched was a searching one, and, like most 
ghost seers, borrowed the wise bird's vision and lost 
nothing by the darkness. Near the top of the vault, 
and close under a large aperture, once guarded by 
an iron grating, but long since riven by the wind 
from its hold, stood a tomb, by its size and chaste 
beauty, apparently guarding the dust of some dis- 
tinguished and revered person; at this tomb bent 
in humble but earnest adoration, the mysterious 
figure. After a while she arose from her knees, 
lighted seven candles and placed them on the tomb ; 
when, with her arms folded on her breast and her 
head bowed, she chanted so mournful but sweet a 
dirge, as melted the heart with its melody, and 
made the listener involuntarily confess his humanity 
— for the warrior wept ! Hush ! a pause. Then 
taking the lamp, she slowly walked seven times 
round the tomb, when the wind suddenly arose 
and a rush burst through the aperture and extin- 
guised the lights — a violent scream immediately 
followed, wild, and shrill as from a lost spirit — a 
crash — aud all was wrapt in the silence of death ! 
Of time the awe-struck spectator took no account, 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 145 

till he found himself endeavouring to grope his way 
from thence, and to retrace the path by which he 
had come. With great difficulty, and many useless 
steps, he at length succeeded in reaching his own 
apartment, where the dying embers could but just 
point to the talisman, beneath whose influence re- 
joice alike the peasant and the prince ! Excited 
and fatigued he resigned himself to the charm. 

Day had scarcely pierced through the oriel light 
of his room, when his slumbers were disturbed by 
great noise and confusion in the house, and the sound 
of loud voices proceeding from the adjoining chamber. 
Curious to know the cause of so rare an occurrence 
in this dreary mansion, he rang his bell, when, to 
his horror, the same door in the tapestried temple 
again opened, and ushered in, not the white lady of 
the previous night, but the old butler, with an 
expression of surprise and alarm on his countenance. 
On enquiring what, if anything, was the matter; 

"Oh! sir," said the old man, "poor Miss Blanche 
is gone." 

" Gone ! gone where ? and who is Miss Blanche V 1 
asked the knight. 



146 THE ABBEY GHOST. 

" Have you forgotten Miss Blanche, sir, the little 
orphan Swiss girl, that my dear lady adopted, just 
before you went away, and treated quite as her 
daughter ? She was a very delicate pretty young 
creature, and we were all very fond of her, my poor 
lady especially, who, on her death bed, entreated 
the baron, whatever might happen, to be always a 
parent to her. God only knows what strange 
things are to occur, but it seems to me that he had 
shown my good mistress, that the poor orphan would 
indeed want a friend when she was gone. And so ii 
proved ; for what with grieving for the loss of her 
benefactress and one thing or another, she lost her 
senses, poor thing ! But I am standing here talking 
instead of trying to find her : yet where to look I 
don^t know ; for the housekeeper always sleeps in the 
room with her, but being rather deaf, she did not 
discover what had taken place till just now. Oh! sir, 
I wish we could find her before my master gets up. 
I think he would never forgive us, for not taking 
better care of her ; for her very madness seems to 
have increased his anxiety about her, and made him 
think her almost a part of his lamented lady." 



THE ABBEY GHOST. 147 

His auditor felt a glow of painful consciousness 
tinge his cheek, and struggling with his feelings, 
which revolted at again visiting the scene of the 
last night's adventure, he offered his assistance in 
the search, and requested the old man to accompany 
him ; he led the way to the vault, and there, at the 
foot of the tomb — the tomb of her noble benefactress 
— lay extended the apparently lifeless form of the 
poor orphan Blanche ! The knight's apartment, 
it seems, was the one occupied by her lost friend, 
and with the cunning of madness, when all was still, 
and the old housekeeper asleep, she had crept 
through the room, so long remembered and loved, 
and onward as she had often done before, to visit the 
tomb of all her hopes, her wishes and her senses — 
the rush of the wind, and the extinction of the lights, 
forced the last ray from the seat of consciousness ! 

Thus then was fathomed and explained, the 
mystery of the long feared, and much avoided 
Abbey Ghost. 



h2 



THE NIGHT -WIND'S MONODY. 



Suggested by hearing the wind whistle melodiously through 
Lincoln Cathedral. 



When night her sable curtain draws 

Around the drowsy earth, 
Enshrouding in that solemn pause, 

The whole creation's birth ; 
I love, by yon cathedral pile, 

To hear the low wind sigh, 
And echo through the cloistered aisle, 

iEolian harmony ! 

Round every pinnacle and tower — 
Through every curve and line, 

Glides on a gently breathing power, 
That seems inspired — divine ! 



149 



Sweet music from a brighter sphere, 

On ebon wing to fly — 
Bedewing the enchanted ear 

With liquid melody ! 

Soft dulcet notes that whisper peace 

To the soul's longing rest ; 
Where troubles of the weary cease, 

And all who seek are blest. 
Anon, those thrilling accents change 

To the low mournful cry, 
That through the vast and vaulted range; 

Chants nature's lullaby ! 

List to the aerial song awhile — 

Mark how each varied tone 
Still quivers through the fretted pile, 

So musical and lone ! 
And sure 'tis good to wander now 

Where sounds so sweet are nigh, 
And deeply quaff the copious flow 

Of heavenly psalmody ! 



150 THE NIGHT-WIND'S MONODY. 

Not long those plaintive dove-notes course 

Their way with gentle wail ; 
A loftier strain — a wilder force — 

Soon swells the rushing gale : 
And tuneful in its richness there, 

The winged breeze sweeps by, 
While silence lingers in despair — 

Disputing sovereignty ! 

As beings of the world of light 

Float in celestial bliss, — 
So in a flood of pure delight, 

May mortals joy in this ; — 
And while those sylph-strung lutes shall peal 

O'er hill and tower and tree, 
Sweetly will o'er remembrance steal 

The Night-Wind's Monody ! 



THE FAERY SONG. 



The sun has set and hushed the bee, 
While dew the earth is veiling, 

All nature shrouding silently, 
Departed day bewailing ! 

It is the time, and 'tis the hour 
For faery midnight revels, 

The owlet's left her rural bower, 
And on her night- course travels. 

The gentle moon, the glittering stars, 
Their lambent lustre shedding ; 

No earthly fears, no mortal eares, 
Our joy, our mirth overspreading. 

Then let us dance, and let us sing, 

The mystic circle round, 
And we will make the woodlands ring 

And echo back the sound ! 



152 THE FAERY SONG. 

On mossy turf the glow-worms lie, 

Their lurid light emitting, 
Like fallen meteors from the sky, 

O'er darkened verdure flitting ! 

Beneath the mushroom's shade we'll rest, 

Our rural nectar sipping ; 
Ambrosia's sweets are ever best 

Prom honied flowerets dripping ! 

Sable night with her starry train, 
Fast from the earth's retreating ; 

With her we'll go, return again, 
Day's obstacles defeating 1 

Away — away ! Aurora comes 

With smiles of daylight beaming ; 

Her golden zone the sun becomes, 
Her gems, the dew-drops gleaming I 

Then let us hence 1 — to mortals leave 
All mundane cares and pleasures ; 

And we'll in other climes receive 
Ethereal blissful treasures t 



THE DYING YEAR. 



Knell of the dying year 

Now rolleth by, 
As a dark cloud winged with fear, 

Its requiem sigh. 

Garb of the dying year, 

A snowy cloud, 
Formed of the frozen tear ; 

A funeral shroud. 

Sweets do the dying year 

In flowers surround, 
The brow of the lost one dear 

A circlet wound. 

Dirge of the dying year, 

The wild winds' moan, 
And to the heart's core bear 

Each murmuring tone. 



154 THE DYING YEAR. 

Tomb of the dying year 

Its depths unfold, 
From earth a barrier rear, 

Silent and cold. 

Life of the passing year, 

Spirit e'er nigh, 
Breathes in the new-born year, 

Never to die ! 






THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 



" Give me the ways of wandering stars to know 
The depths of heaven ahove and earth below." 

Virgil, 2nd Georgic. 

" To spoil the saffron flowers, to sip the blues 
Of violets, wilding blooms, and willow dews." 

Virgil, 4th Georgic. 

" The laurel and the myrtle sweets agree, 
And both in nosegays shall be bound for thee." 

Virgil, 2nd Pastoral. 



Rambling one evening on the northern coast, when 
the sky was thickly studded with myriads of twinkling 
gems, the polar star shining among them with more 
than its wonted lustre : — " What interesting associa- 
tions/' I remarked to a friend who was enjoying with 
me the calm beauties of the scene, " what interesting 
associations does the beholding that pilot — that phi- 
lanthropic star create in the contemplative mind ! A 
ray from the bright halo that encircles the throne of 
heaven — a lamp hung in the firmament by the hand 



156 THE ROSE OP LES PENSEES. 

of mercy; how many a wanderer it has steered 
aright, turned from an uncertain shore and un- 
-friendly welcome to the smiling land of his fathers, 
to the arms of a beloved wife, or the lisped affection 
of a child ; how often to solace the declining years 
of a parent, with open heart and hand to ad- 
minister to his wants and to smooth the rugged 
path to the tomb, a lively monument of that blessed 
assurance e the Lord careth for his people \" 

" True," said my companion, " such a scene as 
the present is an untiring source of speculative in- 
terest, and the following your train of ideas brings to 
my recollection a tradition, popular in a part of the 
world I am familiar with, and which, if you please, I 
will relate." 

" Pray do so by all means," I exclaimed, " for my 
love of the marvellous is insatiable, and legendary 
lore I prize as the phoenix flowers of antiquity." 

In compliance with my desire, my friend accor- 
dingly related to me the following story. 

" The simple inhabitants of the regions of Les 
Pensees, account for the use and beauty of that star 
in the following manner. Les Pensees, as you are 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 157 

doubtless aware, are islands floating in the sweet 
waters of the Pacific ; the poet's Arcadia, where rain 
is the liquid diamond, and snow the shreded pearl, 
where the rivers are of silver and the fruitage is of 
gold, bringing forth the honied hoya, and throwing 
over the green ice-plant its glittering veil. The 
shores of this fair country were destined to receive a 
maid more beautiful than the houris and gentler 
than the summer breeze. Born beneath the shades 
of Pierus, reared at the foot of Parnassus, and fed 
with the mellifluous dew of Hymettus ; she rose like 
the treasured cedar.. And, wreathing her brow with 
the myrtle, the olive and the bay, armed with the 
aegis of purity, where gleamed a f heaven full of 
stars/ and bearing in her hand the silver strung 
lyre, Apolline left the solitude of Athenian bowers, 
and mounting the car of Anadyomene, drawn by the 
milk white swan, and piloted by the nautilus, was 
wafted by Zephyrs over the pellucid waters that 
mirrored their chaste freight with the azure of a 
cloudless sky. 

Landing on the coast of ' Les Pensees/ sleep shed 
her poppy-dew over the senses of the maid, and re- 



158 THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 

tiring to an alcove floored with the riches of Ophir, 
its walls studded with gems, and from its roof de- 
pending stalactites of piu-est crystal — the adopted 
daughter of Les Pensees sank to repose. 

" The Prince of the Isles, (for Les Pensees had 
their prince,) was chosen for his superiority over his 
brother shepherds, for his majestic and noble bear- 
ing, the great vigor and purity of his flock, his 
eager and early detection of their enemy, and for 
his courage in staying the bold advances of the 
robber-bird, not less than for the manly beauty of 
his form, which was tall and finely proportioned. 
His raven hair, drooping in curls over his clear 
brown forehead, was rivalled only by the eagle 
power of his eye. Best skilled in all the accom- 
plishments of his country, most graceful in his car- 
riage, his step in the dance the most agile, the most 
harmonious as a lyrist, and melodious in song, he 
could pour the sweetest strains, cull the fairest flowers, 
and weave them in the prettiest wreath ; in short, 
lie was worthily the Prince of Shepherds. But 
for him throbbed many a heart with the tenderest 
feelings, his own was as yet a stranger to love. 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 159 

' ' It happened that a lamb had strayed from the 
fold, and as he sought it through groves and 
thickets, he reached the alcove where, basking in 
the radiance of reflected rubies, lay the maid, her 
head leaning on one arm, the other resting on her 
lyre. Awhile he stood rivetted to the spot, fear- 
ing lest a breath should dissipate the illusion, for 
such he thought was the scene before him, a being 
so fair having never before crossed his path ; rousing 
himself however, at length he turned and, plucking 
some roses, bound them around the lyre, placed one 
in his own breast, and softly withdrew. A faint 
shadow of what had occurred appeared to the 
sleeper, who dreamed that a snow-white lamb en- 
tered the alcove garlanded with roses, and on put- 
ting forth her arms to caress it, had vanished, leav- 
ing a part of the rosy garland on her lyre. 

" A bevy of young shepherdesses, oppressed with 
the mid-day heat, sought to shelter and refresh 
themselves under the inviting shade of the alcove, 
and while they whispered their wonder at the beauty 
of the stranger, the object of their admiration awoke, 
and having gently solicited their companionship and 



160 THE ROSE OE LES PENSEES. 

protection, was hailed as the favored of the graces 
and the rose of their isles. While yet the distant 
mountains were bordered with the departing glories 
of the day-god, and ere evening had thrown her 
grey mantle over the plain, some kind 'Colin' 
charmed the woods and streams with the melody of 
his ' oaten reed/ as the shepherd horde wiled away the 
sunset-hour in the mazes of the dance. Each sought 
his chosen partner, when one approached conspicuous 
for his height and beauty, over whose lofty brow 
floated the plume of the black heron, and, taking a 
rose from his bosom, laid it at the feet of Apolline. 
Blushingly she received the flower and placing it 
among its sister blossoms, twined by the hand of taste 
around her lyre, she joined with him in the dance : 
the graces lending ease to their steps, and the loves 
buoyancy to their hearts. The sweetest joys are 
the soonest gone — night sounded the tocsin, — the 
pipe was hung on the " sacred pine," and each 
retired to the shade of his own bower. Sleep 
however was far from the eyelids of the prince ; 
in vain he looked around his palace grot where his 
weapon alone, bright with the pale odorous glow of 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 161 

naphtha, was reflected in a thousand burning rays 
from the opal of its walls. There did he in vain 
seek for one glimpse of the mild radiance beaming in 
the eye of Apolline, and the blush of returning day 
was welcomed only as the harbinger of her coming. 
" Time ripened their mutual affection and wore 
on with increased happiness to the lovers. The day 
was passed by the gentle Apolline in aiding the 
maidens in their pastoral duties, and, with the prince, 
threading the fragrant labyrinths of the orange and 
the citron groves, or seeking the refreshing coolness 
of the myrtle bower. With her lute and voice she 
would pour forth harmony, little less wonderful than 
strange, to one whose ears were accustomed only to 
the simple strains of his native isle. And oft would 
she steal from her hours of repose, to wander alone 
by the sea, to chant, to the ripple of the waters, songs 
of her native Greece, and bid them echo on the 
breezes of the Piraeus, the felicity of her lot ; would 
hail the coming of the queen of night with her 
attendant . train of sparkling lights, and bend in 
thankfulness before the power of him who placed 
them in the firmament. 



162 THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 

" Many were the breathings of her muse : two 
only have been preserved, not for their superiority, 
but for the interest attached to them as prophetic of 
the fate of herself and her lover. The hours seemed 
winged with silver as the maid wove her wreaths of 
poesy and song — beloved of each and loving all ; 
blessing her island-plains, she thought them l Elysian 
fields/ and hallowed the spot of her landing by 
offering there her morning orisons fresh from a 
heart, pure as the dew of Shiraz. One of her ram- 
bles on the sea-spangled shore gave rise to the fol- 
lowing verses, to which her voice added a charm 
that made them dear to her lover, and her subse- 
quent fate obtained for them a place in the recollec- 
tions of the islanders. They were these : 

" ' I stood upon the sparkling sands, 
As roared the heaving main, 
Writhing beneath the fettered bands 
Of its adamantine chain. 

The pure coerulean vault on high 

Beamed forth in mild array, 
Through the air-hung fleecy canopy 

Of a clear bright summer's day. 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 163 

Zephyrs soft on the waters strayed 

The Nereides' smile to crave, 
On the dancing foam the sunbeams played, 

And wooed the crested wave. 

The yellow shore stretched onward gay, 

Washed by the boundless sea ; 
Unbroken far the prospect lay, 

In the distance wild and free. 

Till, resting on the curling lip, 

Some dark specks floated nigh, 
The ocean's briny dew to sip, 

Sounding the sea birds' cry. 

They spread the tiny wing and rose, 

Fanning their joyous flight, 
Where, ether-borne, the day beam glows 

On their plumage of spotless white. 

Assuming, as they mounted up, 

A tinge of golden hue, 
Perchance from Ceres' bounteous cup 

Reflected rich and new. 

On the aerial travellers past, 

Like meteors through the gloom, 

In various evolutions cast, 
Begemming the azure dome. 



164 



THE ROSE OP LES PENSEES. 



And as they hovered in mid-air, 

Twinkling in the sun afar, 
The grouped pleiades seemed there, 

And each a sister-star. 

Even Merope, the fallen one, 
Beamed forth with lustre bright, 

As by another nursling won 
Her primal dower of light. 

Or rather, that the light of heaven 

Had kindled by its glance, 
From earth the sweetest offering given, 

' The tear of penitence* !' 

While on the breeze ye fair things sail, 

Many a heart may sigh 
At the rush of the tempest wail — 

Oh, list to the mariners' cry ! 

Not thus can ill portend to man — 
Alone the dark lowering cloud 

Of the storm, that the whirlwinds fan, 
Should the doomed of the ocean shroud. 

'T were sweeter far to picture ye 

Some spirits of the blest, 
The pleiad muses — pure and free, 

"Wending their way to rest. 

* I have ventured to pilfer this little gem from the exhaustless 
mine of Mr. Moore. 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 165 

That erst on Egypt's palace towers 

Had hung the gifted lyre, 
Then flew to the glad Elysian bowers, 

Mingled with the chosen quire. 

To be on high a lamp of light, 

"Were worth the poet's aim, 
To lead the erring wanderer right, 

Envied — enduring fame. 

I would, when fades each flower of earth 

To deck stern Hades' gloom, 
"While lives the soul in its purchased worth, 

A Star might be my tomb ! 



" A union of delights were showered around her. 
Unruffled seemed the course of Appolline; the 
mimosa did her homage, the birds carolled her 
approach with their most thrilling notes, and the 
waters met her with their dancing lights ; the spirit 
of the flowers wooed her, and decked her bowers 
with rainbow tints, and the verdure exhaled the 
choicest perfumes on the pressure of her faery foot ; 
above all, she was blessed in the affection of him, 
who, uniting the courage of the lion with the softness 



166 THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 

of the dove, had chosen her to be the rose of his 
destiny. ^Tiile thns all things smiled, the lovers 
saw not the cloud that hovered over them, and as 
the time approached for their union, each mind was 
eager to devise, and each hand busy to execute, 
whatever might do honor to the auspicious event. 
The finest wool from the virgin flock was selected 
for the bridal robe ; the bird gave forth its gayest 
plumage for her palanquin ; and the cave its richest 
gems for her dower ; one thing only was wanting — 
a nuptual gift worthy the prince's love and the 
charms of his betrothed. In vain did Appolline 
assure him, that she already possesed the most valued 
gift in his devotion — vain were her entreaties that 
he would not leave the island, and vainly did she 
murmur her forebodings of the dangers and the 
difficulties that awaited him. Soothing her anxieties 
and smiling at her fears, he bade her be assured 
that however his love might lead him among the 
1 pikes of danger/ and ' tumble him in the dust of 
labour/ her beautiful image would light him through 
all in safety to her feet. Saying this, he gaily stepped 
into his bark ; and, as he glided over the now smooth 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 167 

but delusive waters, she, with a heart stricken to 
its core, mournfully chanted this prophetic lay. 

On the spot were last thou plantedst 

Thy foot on quitting hence, 
Will I raise the rueful cypress, 

And round, a yew tree fence 

Shall throw its dense and sombre shade, 

To guard the sacred spot ; 
And watered with my sorrowing tears, 

Shall mourn thy cruel lot. 

From thee, the island rule hath passed 
Since thou hast left its shore ; 

And the orange bloom shall fade and die 
For on earth we meet no more ! 

Oh ! then for e'er, love, fare thee well — 

No rose for thee may blow, 
But droop, beneath the bulbul's wing, 

A monument of woe ! 



" And well did he deserve those tears ; for he had 
gone to the garden of the Hesperides to gather a 
bud from the tree of life, to place in the bridal zone 
of his mistress. Hour after hour flitted by, and the 



168 THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 

bark returned not, nor did a speck disturb the 
monotony of the vast expanse of sea — poor Apolline ! 
once the highly favored, now the most wretched of 
maidens ! At length the day, which should have 
laughed in the gleeful chorus of the epithalamium, 
was ushered in by the cries of lamentation and of 
woe — for the feathered songster had mourned his 
message from the land of spirits — the light of Les 
Pensees was extinguished — the prince was no more ! 
The vulture screamed his death knell — the demon of 
the tempest roared his requiem, and the night-mist 
folded him in its shroud ! There, in her gorgeous 
bower, sat the widowed Apolline, heedless of the 
lamentations of her friends, and almost of her own 
sorrow ! The nymphs hung out the mourning 
boughs — the c shepherds forgot their sheep/ and the 
thirsty cattle forsook the tempting stream. The 
young asserted that she had eaten of the honey that 
dims the eye of reason, but the old said that her 
heart was broken. Avoiding communion with all, 
she lived apart from the world ; none intruding on 
her solitude, for they respected her grief, and well 
nigh worshipped her as an idol. On the highest 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 169 

point of the island she made her a garden, and 
planted it with the rose, the myrtle, and the apple ; 
over the rose she threw the ragged fillet of the fates, 
and around them all she wreathed cypress, with the 
olive and the laurel; the foliage of a lofty palm 
which stood in the midst, became her nightly 
canopy, and its fruit her daily food. She passed 
her days in the alcove where she first became iden- 
tified with the rose, and weary with her sorrows, in 
mournfully wandering on the sea-shore, listening 
with melancholy pleasure to the wind making sweet 
music, as with low wailing it whistled through each 
cave and crevice of the rocky coast. But soon as 
night came on, the stricken maid arose, and, with the 
nightingale in her bosom, which her grief had tamed, 
hied her to the topmost mound, where on the palm 
boughs, through sleet and storm, she nightly hung 
her watch-lamp, while the bird, nestling among the 
branches, warbled its clear shrill song to the rush of 
the ocean-wave. 

" Thus the once blooming Apolline, the loveliest 
rose of ' Les Pensees/ like the lily withered in an 
ungenial clime, was now the drooping flower her own 



170 THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 

thoughts had pictured. Those who knew her not 
thought her attenuated form some restless spirit 
from another world, who nightly came to trim the 
lamp on the tall palm boughs; but others there 
were, whojhad known her in her days of happiness, 
who had joined with her in the evening dance, had 
sat with her in the orange grove, 



Had often pleased ' that sylvan scene to take 
Where whistling winds uncertain shadows make, 

Or to the cooler cave succeed, 

Whose mouth the curling Tines have overspread.' 



" There have they hung entranced by her melody, 
when even the very birds paused to catch the echo 
of her song ; — they who remembered the blight that 
had staid the warm current of her affections, and in 
whom the chill air of adversity had not riven the 
cords of friendship ; and these were they who now 
watched with a solicitude unknown to its object, her 
listless step and languid movements, as she toiled 
up the steep ascent to her leafy bower, never per- 



THE ROSE OF LES PENSEES. 171 

mitting themselves to sleep till they had seen the 
beacon glimmer on the height. 

"One night, clear as the heavens, where sat 
enthroned the full-orbed moon, radiant in the calm 
dignity of conscious power, the tall palm stood 
out from the horizon, a mass of dense and 
unbroken darkness. The summit of the hill was 
eagerly attained — where all was silent as the tomb 
— the maid was no where to be found — the lamp 
lay unlighted on the earth, and the bird sat aloft 
mute and with folded wings. One put forth her 
hand to give it her protection — it was cold — the rose 
had departed, and the nightingale was dead ! 

" And what the fate of Apolline ? some old super- 
annuated shepherds whispered it as their conviction, 
that she had fallen from the precipice and was 
drowned — some said she had drunk of the lake of 
liquid stars, and become a floating light — but the 
popular belief is, that agreeably to her wish, the 
rose of ' Les Pensees* now shines forth with added 
lustre as the Polar-star ! " 

Having thanked my friend for his fanciful story 
and wished him good night, I retired to dream of 
i2 



172 THE BOSE OF LES PENSEES. 

the Heron- crested and his beatified rose of f Les 
Pensees. -5 

It was not until some time after this article was written that 
I discovered I had been anticipated in the idea of translating a 
being of earth to serve as a light to future ages in the form of a 
star. I find that the Indian " Dhruva, son of Uttanapa-da, like 
Enos of scripture, was commended for his extraordinary piety, 
and the salutary precepts he gave to mankind. He did not taste 
death, but was translated to heaven, where he shines in the polar- 
star." — Asiatic Researches, vol. v. page 241. 



THE QUEEN'S BRIDAL-SONG. 



Hail ! bride of the braided brow ! 

A votary thou 

To the nuptial vow, 
At the altar's pale thou kneelest now ! 

Hail ! bride of the sceptred might ! 

Thy diadem bright, 

To nations a light 
Resplendent as meteors of night ! 

Hail ! bride of the regal brow ! 

Thy circlet of snow 

Sweets o'er thee shall throw, 
More chaste than thy crown's jewelled glow ! 

Hail ! bride of the blushing rose ! 

Nor thistle e'er lose 

Nor shamrock e'er choose 
But round thee their triune band close. 



174 



THE QUEEN'S BRIDAL SONG, 



Hail ! bride of the floral wreath ! 
All thorns I would sheathe,, 
Lest thy brow they enwreathe, 

While o'er thee a blessing I breathe ! 



MAY DAY. 

Welcome sweet May ! to the sorrowing earth. 
Drooping and chilled by winter's wild blast ; 

Joyful to all is the hour of the birth. 

Chasing each cloud our clime had overcast. 

Welcome sweet May ! in sunny smiles drest, 

Clad in thy robe of emerald green, 
Diamond dew-drops hanging at rest, 

Brightly begem thy pathway serene. 

Welcome sweet May ! thy choral bands sing, 

Carolling high thy praises afar ; 
Melody's strains triumphantly bring, 

Heralding forth thy glee-laden car ! 

Welcome sweet May ! chaste youth bear thy train, 
Hail thy approach with mirth and with song : 

Echo responds o'er city and plain, 

Crouds to thy fete in happiness throng. 



176 MAY DAT. 

Welcome sweet May ! with cultured parterre, 
Wreathing rare blossoms of various hue ; 

Hawthorn and lily more rustic may share 
Honors, exotics alone never knew. 

Welcome sweet May I with village pole reared, 
Roses and pinks and woodbine entwine ; 

Garden and grove are remorselessly cleared,— 
Decking the scene peculiarly thine. 

Welcome sweet May ! thy odorous bowers 
Fragrantly tempt the revel and dance ; 

Garlands are woven with fresh blooming flowers, 
Blushing beneath each rapturous glance. 

Welcome sweet May \ behold your fair Queen, 
Buoyant in spirit, as lovely in face, 

Tripping untaught so light o'er the green, 
Surpassing all maids in beauty and grace. 

Farewell sweet May I thy festal hour wanes* 
Emblem of man's brief mortal career, 

Transiently thus he gloriously reigns, 

A moment he's gone — his place is riot hexe. 



MAY DAY. 177 

Like thee, sweet May ! earth sees him no more, 
Till called by a voice all powerful — Divine ! 

Blest may he rise his God to adore, 

In regions of bliss far brighter than thine, 

Sweet May! 



1% 



THE HERO'S WREATH 



As presented to his Grace the Duke of Wellington, K.G., &c, 
on the anniversary of his Grace's birthday May 1, 1842, 

Rise blithesome May from your dewy couch, 

And welcome the time-prized hour, 
That the Ocean's Queen a hero gave 

To deck her oaken bower — 
With trophies from the bannered host 

Of many a distant land, 
"Who mercy stamped with the conquering sword 

On many a foreign strand ! 
Arise and bring, from your varied haunts, 

Beauties so rich and gay, 
As may tell of the pride and love you bear 

For the warrior's natal day ! 






179 



Bring flowers to 'circle your hero's brow, 

The brow of the brave and true, 
From lands he has free'd from the alien's grasp 

Beneath which they withering grew. 

Where the " City of Palaces" glows 

In a sun-bright eastern sky, 
And the fire-fly gleams with its dancing light, 

As it flits on the Zephyr's sigh ; 
From mangoe groves and the banian shade, 

Bring sweets of the Indian shore, 
In the glittering veil of its autumn dew, 

As with gems bespangled o'er ; 
Where sleepily waves the poppy white, 

Under the azure blue, 
While there floats aloft the flexile wing 

Of nature's most gorgeous hue. 

Bear of the vine from Iberian heights, 

Moist with the tears of morn, 
Shed o'er the bier of the vanquished brave, 

Who the despot's badge had worn ; 
And bring from its odorous citron vales 

That, warm in the sunny sheen, 



180 

Blush with the blood of their children slain, 

Dyed by that carnage scene ; 
Cull of the bloom of Acacian boughs, 

Of Hesperian eglantine, 
Whose chastened tints amid fragrance blow, 

With the fruitful olive twine. 

From the fair Lusitanian plain, 

With the star-lit emerald bower, 
Pluck enamelling blossoms that breathe 

And perfume the pastoral hour — 
From the mountains that bathe in the dew, 

Where entombed lies the silvery ore, 
Which the shield and the sceptre adorned 

Of the Roman, the Christian and Moor ; 
Where the golden alluvia floats, 

Coursing its glistening way, 
And the Ulysses *-born capital towers, 

Concentring each nickering ray. 

Haste, haste for the queen of fair flowers, 
Which long has so royally graced 

* The Portuguese affirm that Lisbon was founded by Ulysses. 



181 



The tiara of gay " La belle France," 

On the brow of its famed monarch placed ; 
Gather from far the Provencal rose, 

Reared by the Troubadour's love, 
Fresh from the streams of the lyre and song, 

Fond hearts of the fair to move ! 
From the bowers of poesy bring 

The golden-eyed Marguerite, 
For beauty by chivalry worn, 

Their " mot" the bride " Marguerite !" 

"With the violet* perfume the whole, 

Memorial of by-gone power, 
That, rashly torn from its rural home, 

Was raised, in an evil hour, 
To the tottering height of imperial might, 

The watch-word's charm to be, 
Cheering the brave, through fields of blood, 

To a hard-earned Victory ! 
Usurper, flower, have passed away, 

Scorched by ambition's fire : 



* As the eagle was the standard, so the violet was the emblem 
of Napoleon Bonaparte. 



182 

Now kindred dust is their mutual tomb — - 
Memory their funeral pyre ! 

See Britain all proudly reposing, 

Secure in her sceptred sway, 
While the sun of Juverna* beams o'er her, 

Coursing his glorious way, 
Beneath whose effulgence erewhile 

The Tiger of Mysore quailed. 
And fell in ferocity drenched, 

By the gore of the war-dust veiledf ; 
As the towering eagle that soared 

O'er a long-sought vassal world, 
Blinded by pride and that meteor light, 

From his aerial height was hurled ! 

Of Albion's flowers that flourish 

So calm in his effluent beams, 
From the garden and grove bear the blossoms, 

With which it luxuriantly teems, 



* Ireland was by the ancients sometimes called " Juverna." 
f After the battle of Seringapatam much difficulty v,as experi- 
enced in recognizing the body of the sanguinary Tippoo Saib so 
disfigured was it by the revolting accompaniments of war. 



183 

Laburnum's clusters of pendant gold, 

The hawthorn and hare-bell blue ; 
With crimson heath and silver broom ; 

And the sapphire speedwell true, 
Bind with the leaves of Attica's clime, 

Wreathed erst for the hero's boon, 
A native now of our verdant isle, 

In the grace of her regal noon * ! 

Thy task now nlfilled, O " Ariel" May ! 

Who his birth-couch once didst bare, 
When larks sung reveillie — nightingales lullaby — - 

Proud of their nursling care. 
To Fame give the garland thou'st woven, 

Then away — as the air thou art free ! 
That immersed in the famed eastern fountain, 

Immortal it be ! 
Yet withal how unworthy a wreath, 

For him who earth's glories has won ; 
While the hearts of his country — the voice of the 
brave — 

Pray long may live Wellington ! 

* The " Alexandrine victory laurel," which grows abundantly 
in Greece is said to be that used in crowning the heroes of old 
after a victory. 



TIME— A FRAGMENT. 



* — The tide of time rolls heedless, swift and strong, 
Nor stops at aught its rapid course along, 
Unlike the tide of oceans briny deep 
Whose ebb and flow diurnal motion keep, 
No ebb is known by that relentless power 
That makes the bravest shrink, the boldest cower. 
O'er mountains wild and sheltered valleys deep — - 
O'er alpine heights its ruthless wave can sweep, 
The forest oak though long defying stands, 
The pride and strength of Britain's envied lands, 
Overpowered at last beneath his sovereign sway, 
With the frail flower, ephemeral gem of day, 
Alike absorbed in that charybdis whirl, 
To depths unseen the countless atoms hurl ! 
No age — or strength — or beauteous glow of health- 
No gorgeous state — magnificence or wealth, 



TIME A FRAGMENT. 185 

Nor man, most perfect of creation's works, 
Nor other form in which the life-spark lurks, 
Can stem the torrent in its ceaseless flow, 
Nor of tomorrow, till tomorrow know ! 



THE FLITTING FLOWER. 

POET. 

Oh ! where dost thou flee, sweet gem of the hour, 
With petals expanded, thou fairy flower ; 

Born of the orient ray : 
Pearls for thy pendants, with tendrils so true, 
By gossamer veiled, and blushing in dew 

Yet drooping, thou witherest away ? 

THE FLOWER. 
Though bright be the course, and joyous the hour 
Of the brilliant, the gay, the ephemeral flower, 

Nature's just laws I obey : 
When day mourns in gloom and soft zephyrs sigh, 
On Time's airy wings I mount up on high, 

And float on my glorious way. 






A VILLAGE SCENE. 



In Ashby's cheerful village street, 

A humble dwelling stood, 
Where lived a widow poor and neat, 

Contented, pious, good ! 

But sickness came, unwelcome guest, 

To poverty's abode. 
I saw her near her final rest, 

As I her threshold trode. 

I entered that small cottage room, 

I blessed its inmates poor, 
I prayed the dark cloud's hovering gloom 

Might gently pass its door. 

I soft approached the lowly bed, 

And stood transfixed beside : 
An instant gazed, then turned my head 

A starting tear to hide. 



] 88 A VILLAGE SCENE. 

For on that humble pallet lay 

The widow, waning fast, 
Whose flickering spirit day by day 

Told each might be her last. 

And near the bed a figure tall, 
Besmeared with soot and smoke, 

Whose upturned sleeves, complexion, all 
A blacksmith's trade bespoke. 

But I could see, through that dark hue 
Which veiled the outward man, 

Affection, filial, ardent, true, 
That death but served to fan. 

The casket rough, unpolished, coarse, 
A priceless gem contained, 

A heart that felt and prized the source 
From which he life had gained. 

That manly form blushed not to watch, 
In sorrowing anxious care, 

With woman's tenderness to catch 
Each word of want or prayer. 




A VILLAGE SCENE. 189 

His breakfast lay untasted by, 

While be, with spoon in hand, 
The dying mother urged to try 

And taste, in accents bland. 

Ye rich in earth's best gifts awake ! 

Nor scorn this humble scene : 
The duteous son's example take, 

And be what he has been ! 



THE SABBATH. 



How sweet returns the day of sacred rest 
To mortals, wearied with the toils and strife 
This chequered world presents to even the best, 
Who thread the labyrinthine maze of life. 
'Mid busy haunts of men and bustling crowd, 
All eager searching after wealth or mirth, 
Thou, Sabbath, risest like a pillared cloud, 
To lead us o'er the untrodden wilds of earth ; 
A beacon pure, celestial, brightly calm, 
The wanderer luring to the " paths of peace/' 
With holy thoughts man's sinning heart to warm, 
And light him to the promised land of ease ; 
Hail! holy-day! earth's charms succmub to thine, 
Formed by the hand and blest by voice Divine ! 



TO THE ASCETIC. 



You tell me Fm sportive and airy, 
A butterfly, thoughtless and gay, 

Elastic and light as a fairy, 

That whirls in the moon's silver ray ! 

You say that I bask in the sunshine 
Of morn's golden springtide of life, 

And vainly attempt to illumine 
The darkness with which it is rife. 

You say that my summer is waning, 
The bloom of my youthfulness past, 

That the world my soul is enchaining, 
The bliss of hereafter to blast ! 

You tell me all this — but how falsely, 
Beholding the surface alone ; 

You see not the spirit within me, 
High, holy, and pure as your own ! 



192 



TO THE ASCETIC. 



Oh say not celestial pleasures 

Are closed from the cheerful and gay, 
Since fondly Fve sought for the treasures 

Of eternity's glorious day ! 

And though I have sported in pastime. 
And joyed in the sweets of each flower, 

The sole wish of my heart is the clime 
Of the heavenly amaranth bower I 






HARVEST. 



Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to Him, 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 

Thompson. 



August has breathed her last sigh on the autumnal 

brow of September, 
Leaving him executor of her wealth in the fruits of 

her sunny toil : 
And earth, the garden of nature, has spread forth 

her enamelled robe, 
Inviting the ephemera, who live on her bounty, 
To cull sweets from the flower, bloom from the fruit, 

and grain for the garner. 
Thou fly ! that flittest in the exotic atmosphere of 

fashion, 
Feeding on the vain gawds of many coloured dyes, 



194 



HARVEST. 



That scroll so sweet to the taste, but so bitter to the 

heart, 
Rise from thy bed of down, not more plastic than 



the 



sense 



Which so readily receives each impress of the 

passing metal — 
Taking no heed of the ore, whether it be the spurious 

or the pure : 
Descend from thy chamber redolent with odours of 

the perfumed east — 
Quit for a while the evening scene of amusement, 
The heated rooms, glowing in the borrowed radiance 

of artificial light, 
Whose countless mirrors reflect all but the inmost 

workings of the mind and heart 
Of him, who worships at its brittle shrine. 
Close thine ear to the syren voice of flattery — 
Thine eye to the smile of unmeaning profession : 
And come with me, for I will show thee the 

substance, 
Whose shadow thou seest but now, as in a glass 

darkly. 



HARVEST. 195 

While yet the grey shade of night lingers as a veil 

over the coming day, 
And the vaporous fall-cloud rests upon the verdant 

plain, 
The corn, bending over its fragile stem, invites the 

labours of the husbandman ; 
Who, laden with scythe and wallet, willingly answers 

to the call, 
Cheered on his path by the blithe carol of the lark, 
As mounting her aerial car, she chants her matin 

hymn on high, 
Pouring forth her melodious orisons to God, invisible 

and great ! 
A faint glimmer in the east — and behold the golden 

eye beams o'er the cheek of earth, 
That, radiant in new-born loveliness, blushes beneath 

its ardent gaze. 
See'st thou the insect weaving the wreathed mist ? 
Mark how she threads the netted gossamer, 
And say, oh man ! art thou better than this frail 

aeronaut — 
Hast caught no unwary one in thy tangled meshes ? 
Inhale the fresh breezes of the virgin morn, 



196 HARVEST. 

And take to thee new life, for the old is a canker- 
worm. 

Sweet to the pure in heart is the first dawn of 

day, 
And welcome to the rustic, the first glimpse of the 

golden grain : 
He stretches forth the athletic sinew and grasps with 

firmness the ready sickle — 
Graceful and laden with its plenteous store, it droops 

and falls : 
Trained to the gentle task, the urchin of a dozen 

moons, binds up the scattered sweets ; 
And behold the sheaves of plenty bedeck the gifted 

earth : 
Plenty, that as a wholesome wine, gladdens the heart 

of man. 

Be thoughtful, oh man ! in thy joy, for thou art 

highly favored of thy God. 
The ingrate is as a slime-covered stagnant water, 
Fed by pellucid streamlets from the fountain of 

eternal life, 



HARVEST. 197 

Returning nought but a humid and a noxious 
vapour — 

A barren rock where not even a lichen dieth 
To form a soil that may nourish the immortal 
seed. 

Come ! ye sylvan daughters of the household of 

poverty, 
Stoop, and ye shall be filled, for the earth is rich 

and fruitful, 
Abundance opens her bounteous hand and blesses 

the poor and the needy, 
As Ruth in the fields of Boaz, so shall the righteous 

be fed through all time. 
Waste not the sunny hour, for want perchance 

cometh with the eve. 
Time is a chequered path of flowers and thorns : 
The lily is chaste, but it falls — the rose blooms, but 

it withers — 
The deathless amaranth alone fades not in its 

circumscribed round ! 

The dew is on the earth, and the leaves repose in 
the tranquil air, 



198 



HARVEST. 



Haste and gather in the groaning sheaves, lest the 

darkness overtake thee ; 
And the showers of heaven stay the laggard hand — 
And repentance, like the cloak, cometh too late — 
"Weak mortal ! depend not thou, on thy human 

energies. 

Behold the silvery orb expands her welcome light, 
And hails thee with her chaste refulgent beams. 
Man talketh of himself, who is a shadow — and 

keepeth silence of his God who created it — 
Of Him who is the substance — the essence — and 

the life : 
But call thou uponHim, for He turns the wheel of 

destiny — 
And thou art blessed by the ruling sovereign of 

the skies : 
And know that poverty is the blight and the famine 

of sloth, 
"While plenty is the golden Harvest of Industry. 



AUTUMN. 



Behold ! a form with changeful pace, 

Inviting air, and winning grace — 

See ! borne on Zephyr's ether-wings, 

She cooling odours round her flings ; 

At sight of her the golden god, 

Who late the thirsty earth has trod, 

Withdraws his fierce and fiery beams, 

Subdued in milder glances gleams ; 

In calmer, purer, radiance glowing, 

And chastened brilliance round her throwing. 

His genial warmth her path prepared, 

And with her nature's beauties shared — 

Has strewn her way with choicest flowers, 

And gaily decked her blooming bowers : 

Fragile leaves from the mother stem, 

Flora's pride and diadem, 

Has blighted with his scorching ray, 

Like the greensward by midnight fay, 



200 AUTUMN. 

As elfine legends please to tell 

Of many a woodland glade and dell ; 

But all unlike that magic ring 

Is Phoebus' influence withering, 

Who blights but to restore again, 

And, from the ashes of the slain, 

As did the fabled bird of yore 

From its own dust triumphant soar, 

So back the vital sap returns, 

And with renewed spirit burns ; 

Exulting in its pride expands, 

And stretching far its swathing bands, 

The rich and luscious fruit appears, 

Which well the care-worn traveller cheers. 

The traveller o'er the chequered way 
Of Time's long tried eventful day, 
Hails thy approach with pleasure true, 
Thou maid of many a varied hue ! 
In sweets were lulled thy infant hours, 
As washed in dew-drops sparkling showers, 
Fed with ambrosial gifts of earth, 
All nature smiling at thy birth, 



AUTUMN, 201 

As if to welcome here below 

Man's surest friend and chase his foe, 

That secret lurks — a poisoned barb, 

'Neath pleasure's all-alluring garb. 

— When bliss is greatest and life is dearest, 

Hope then is least and danger nearest ! 

Thus gladness flows in sunny streams, 

And all with rich luxuriance teems. 

But — clouds o'ercast thy brilliant course, 

Then bursting, whelm thee with their force, 

Chasing thy beauties as they fly, 

First tinging with vermillion die, 

'Till thou sweet Autumn once so fair 

With all thy fruits and blossoms rare, 

Dost silent rest in spectral gloom — 

In calmness wait thy final doom ! 

Thus mutable is man's career 
In this brief sublunary sphere — 
His morning dawns in gladsome light, 
And all around is beaming bright, 
Still, as life's wheel keeps turning on, 
With every round a link is gone 

k5 



202 



AUTUMN. 



Of pleasure's golden dream -like chain, 
Which never can unite again. 
When whistling winds, that stealthy creep, 
Increase in vigour till they sweep 
The verdure from his manhood's brow, 
And fairest front in furrows plough : 
As the proud sylvan lordlings stand, 
Marked by the skilful woodman's hand, 
So death has set his seal on thee, 
Frail shoot of poor humanity ! 

See'st thou the season born in bloom, 
Descending gently to the tomb ? 
In watching her thus droop and die 
Learn, learn, oh man ! humility ; 
Confess that thou no power hast 
Thyself to save, but fearless cast 
The burden of thy sins alone 
On him — the pure — atoning One ! 
And though the hoary frost of years 
Bedew thy form with suffering tears — 
Though dire infirmities may bow 
And check thy life-blood in its flow — 



AUTUMN. 203 

Chilled by the icy hand of death, 

The vital stream — the struggling breath 

Succumb to that permitted power, 

Crushing the earth-born fleeting flower, 

Permitted but to burst the shell 

And free the prisoner from his cell, 

Returning to its kindred dust 

All but the inward, hopeful trust, 

The germ — the sap — the undying part — 

Pierced not the chilling wintry dart 

That holy seed of countless worth, 

Planted within thee at thy birth ! — 

Oh ! tender well the treasure rare, 

And nourish with untiring care, 

Let it with living waters be 

Fitted for immortality ! 

That garnered with the chosen wheat, 

A voice divine may welcome greet, 

Bidding thee to the supper come 

In the bridegroom's blissful home : 

Unknown how soon thy summons there, 

The wedding garment quick prepare, 



204 AUTUMN. 

Steeped in the mediating flood 

Of the spotless Jesu's blood ; 

Thus robed, thou'lt pass the ghastly gate — 

In Hades' calm, resigned await — 

And when, at last, the trump shall sound, 

From out their funeral bed 

To call the sleeping dead, 
Mayst thou among the blest be found ! 



ON THE AUSPICIOUS BIRTH OF 
A PRINCESS 

TO THE ROYAL HOUSE OF GREAT BRITAIN. 

Rise high, ye haughty billows, rise 

High on your Ocean-bed, 
As o'er each rival element 

Now towers your foaming head. 

Bring gems from out your priceless depths, 

From many a silver cave, 
To deck the gifted Faery Land 

Your crested waters lave. 

Yet, while ye roll a ceaseless watch 

Around your favoured Isle, 
On this, the day of Jubilee, 

Oh, calmly, gently smile 



206 THE AUSPICIOUS BIRTH OF A PRINCESS, 

A welcome to the Infant Bud, 

Born of the Royal Rose : 
See ! cradled in that nautilus* shell — 

A Star of Brunswick glows ! 

Oh ! shadow forth in peaceful rest, 

Without one rippling sigh, 
And mirror on your waveless deep, 

Her future destiny ! 

Thou ! England's hope, and Britain's pride, 

Babe of our Island Home ! 
Though planted in a northern clime, 

Warm wishes bid thee bloom. 

Long round thy Royal Parents' hearts 

May firm thy tendrils wind, 
And Hearts of Oak, and a Nation's Prayers 

The three together bind ! 

* The cot for the royal infant is said to be in the form of a 
nautilus shelL 






THE ROBIN. 



" Unbounded freedom is a morning dream, 
That flits aerial from the cheated eye." 

Thompson. 



One morning, at the commencement of the late 
storm, I amused myself by quietly observing the 
snow in its still and graceful course, its fleecy flakes 
jostling one another in their confused haste to reach 
their destination, aud spreading over the earth a 
robe of spotless purity. The low plants became 
soon covered, and the shrubs a shapeless mass ; 
while nature seemed to rest a calm spectator of the 
scene — silence watching as she slept. Not a breath 
of air stirred the leafless boughs that bent beneath 
their chaste burthen. Horses plodded noiselessly 
along, and the untiring wheel revolved as on a bed 
of down. Sheep huddled together had sought shel- 



208 



THE ROBIN. 



ter under some inviting hedge. Not a bird seemed 
on the wing. Man crept to the domestic hearth ; 
and I thanked God, that I too had a resting-place, 
had not only the where to lay my head but was 
surrounded with innumerable comforts. I stirred 
up my fire, and while the blaze rose in gladsome 
brightness, infusing warmth into my frame; my 
gratitude was called forth with ten-fold earnestness 
to him, who had provided me with all, and had even 
exceeded my unworthiness by his unbounded muni- 
ficence. 

The room in which I was sitting opened by a 
glass door into a conservatory, at that time almost 
darkened by a quantity of snow, that had accumu- 
lated on its roof. I thought certainly I heard a 
noise — a rustling among the leaves — what could it 
be ? A pause, and all was still : then a busy flit- 
ting about ; it could not be a cat, for the outer door 
had been blocked up with snow for some days, and 
there was no other ingress. 

I then opened the window and stole forth on tip- 
toe in search of the intruder. For some time I 
sought in vain — behind the flues, under the stand, 



THE ROBIN. 209 

and between the plants. At length, in a shaded 
nook I saw something red peeping through the 
drooping leaves of an agapanthus, and anon I disco- 
vered the offender to be a robin, puffing himself out 
to his utmost ability, and with ruffled feathers pant- 
ing with his late exertion, or more probably with 
fear lest a greater evil should befal him. 

After a further search, I found a small hole in 
the roof, occasioned doubtless by the pressure of 
snow ; through this must the little robin have made 
his way to the shelter of the green spot. 

It is the opinion of some, I know, that the rich, 
the powerful and the happy possess the hardest 
hearts, that the luxury with which they are them- 
selves surrounded renders them not only ignorant, 
but unmindful, of the wants of their less favoured 
fellow-creatures. Of the justness of this remark I 
am more than sceptical, judging of the feelings of 
others by my own, which I have ever found more 
alive to sympathy with the needy, and leaning with 
more kindliness towards the suffering, in proportion 
to my own personal enjoyment at the moment ; and 
never do I feel so great a disposition to feed the 



210 THE ROBIN. 

hungry, as when I am indulging my own appetite 
with delicate viands and see a brother have need; 
and never am I so ready to clothe the naked, as 
when my own frame is enveloped in choice produc- 
tions of the loom, and some ragged outcast is the 
passer by; and never does my heart yearn so 
deeply to sprinkle the sinner with the waters of life, 
as when I am myself bathing in its life-giving 
stream. 

And I was rich, was powerful, was happy when 
compared with this little timid creature, whose ne- 
cessities had driven him to my protection, and wil- 
lingly would I have fondled and tended him with 
careful watchfulness, until the green herb appeared 
and the feathered tribe were again on the wing. But 
no, my little visiter fled me as I approached, and 
recommenced his wanderings and buffettings against 
the unyielding glass, forcing on me the conviction 
that I had more thought for him than he had for 
himself. And yet, notwithstanding his evident dis- 
inclination to make my acquaintance, or to meet my 
friendly advances; I tried to sooth him with gen- 
tleness, offering as a bribe, a plentiful supply of 



THE ROBIN. 211 

bread-crumbs and corn. Obstinate robin ! lie was the 
most untameable of his sex, and struggled vehe- 
mently, but in vain, to make his exit. The snow 
still fell fast, and I kept my captive in his self- 
sought prison-house. The day closed in, and his 
flutterings were hushed. 

The following morning brought better weather, 
the snow had ceased. Robin was an early mover, and 
again, to the imminent danger of sundry flower-pots 
and fragile stems, performing his circumvolutions, 
impatient to rejoin his companions. Finding all 
my endeavours to sooth him were unavailing, and 
hoping that he would find a resting-place more to 
his taste, I had the snow swept away and the door 
opened, offering what was quickly accepted — the 
delights of liberty to the captive of a day ! Restored 
to his native element, the robin ceased to be an 
object of especial interest, and I resumed my accus- 
tomed occupations. The wind rose towards evening 
and it proved a very stormy night, while we, a happy 
little family group, drawing our chairs in a circle 
chatted carelessly around a blazing christmas fire, 
unconscious of the suffering even within our very 



212 



THE ROBIN. 



shadows. Many noises were afloat, which we attri* 
buted to the wind forcing the masses of snow from 
the roof of the conservatory, but nothing occurred 
sufficiently striking to arouse our attention from the 
spot we were occupying, and we retired to rest. On 
rising the following morning, I perceived that a 
great quantity of snow had fallen during the night, 
and desired the servant to sweep away what had 
been drifted round the house. He presently came 
in and told me that he had just found the little 
robin lying close to the door of the conservatory — 
quite dead ! 

Poor foolish little bird ! why couldest thou not 
have rested in thy pretty shelter ? I would have 
been a gentle mistress to thee, but thou preferredst 
liberty and hast found to thy cost but an ephemeral 
and dubious joy. The wide range of liberty for 
which thou pantedst has been to thee a waste of de- 
solation — yea, a phantom which has led thee to the 
great gulf of destruction. The little heart, that so 
late -fluttered in all the joyousness of life, has now 
ceased to throb ; and those buoyant wings that beat 
but yesterday with such vehemence against the glass 






THE ROBIN. 213 

now droop in the listlessness of death. Pretty bird 
I would that thou hadst lived and been my pet. 
Yet, why was it that he should have again sought 
the shelter from which he had with such glee 
escaped only a few hours before ? The wind arose 
and the storm beat, and he could find " no rest for 
the sole of his foot," so he returned to seek safety 
from the fury of the elements within my frail city of 
refuge. And now when it was too late, the man 
told me that when he went on the previous night to 
close the gates, he saw the poor bird flitting about, 
flapping the glass with his wings, and vainly endea- 
vouring by every means he could devise to effect an 
entrance. But it was willed, and his hour was come, 
for we know that without Him not a sparrow falleth 
to the ground ; and being unable to awaken me to a 
knowledge of his necessities he breathed away his 
little life on my very threshold ! 

This incident, trifling as it may appear to others, 
made a mournful impression on my mind, and in 
the tenderness of my concern for the feathered song- 
ster I condemned myself for not having checked his 
waywardness, and saved him against his will. I 



214 THE ROBIN. 

call upon thee, my son, to ponder over this little 
affecting incident, and, as I have done, take the 
moral it affords to thy edification. Launched on the 
current of life, think not to find the waters un- 
ruffled ; the elements of evil never cease from trou- 
bling till the weary are at rest. Yet is there a 
safe harbour for the voyager, a green spot in the 
floods — an oasis in the desert. Seek thou the ark 
of the covenant — the shadow of the Most High — 
the bosom of thy Lord. Then may the tempest 
rage in vain, for thy tenement is built on the " Rock 
of Ages." But fly from the shelter of religion — follow 
the ignis fatuus of liberty and self-will, and thou art 
but as a grain of sand, which the ocean of time shall 
sweep from the earth, leaving behind no trace of thy 
visionary course. Repentance too may even come 
too late : the dying thief on the cross was pardoned 
it is true at the eleventh hour — but ages have rolled 
bysince those days of darkness and of crime. Indulge 
no vain hope that a miracle will now be worked for 
thee. Man must not only repent and believe, but 
must show his " Faith by his Works !" Born 
within the pale of Christianity, blessed with a con- 



THE ROBIN. 215 

stitution that gives liberty to all but evil-doers, 
there is no hope for the wilful transgressor of this 
legitimate boundary. The balance of justice is held 
by an unerring hand, and the chaff will be as surely 
committed to undying flames, as that the pure grain 
will be placed in the treasury of heaven ! Be thou 
that treasured grain — that cherished bird, basking 
in the sunshine of holiness and safe in the promise 
of an unchanging protector. Idle not away the 
time, for every hour of which thou art accountable ; 
nor indulge in the wayward caprices of youth and 
inexperience. Turn not insensibly from proffered 
kindness, but be rather mild and docile, nor flutter 
thy restless wings against the power that would sus- 
tain thee. Then, courted and beloved on earth, and 
as a dove with its plumage dyed in the gorgeous 
hues of the glowing east, that is covered with silver 
wings and her feathers like gold, shalt thou be a 
meet inhabitant of the paradise of God ! 



THE CHRISTIAN'S CONVICTION. 



The young, the old,, the wise and fair 
Alike the cross of Christ must bear, 
Nor doubt that his redeeming blood, 
That expiating, saving flood 
Of mercy, has full power to save 
And all the ills of life can brave ; 
That the bright spirit of the dove, 
E'er beaming light and life and love, 
Has power to purify and lead 
The yearning soul in its utmost need, 
To him who sits enthroned on high, 
Who was and is eternally, 
Mysterious — uncreated king — 
To whom the choir angelic sing, 
In hallelujahs, voices raise ; 
Celestial harps resound the praise 
Countless hosts and saintly throng, 
Echo back the glorious song, 



217 



Ecstatic bliss, thus soaring nigh, 
Heaven thrills at its own melody ! 

Thou must do this, oh ! man, or know, 
For thee no streams of mercy flow, 
For thee no hope beyond the grave, 
No brightness but the lurid wave, 
That glows but to encompass thee 
In endless, direful agony ! 
Behold the varied paths of life, 
Of weal and woe, of hope and strife. 
Let not the broad and easy way 
E'er tempt thy wandering steps astray, 
Nor think that pleasure's witchery holds 
Gold, unalloyed, beneath her folds : 
What now thou see'st is not the spring 
For which thou plumest thy hopeful wing, 
'Tis but the mirage of the east, 
On which thy soul essays to feast, 
Nor after many a weary toil 
Will e'er the phantom cease to foil, 
Till on the quenchless desert thou 
Deceived, ingulfed, shalt helpless bow ! 

Fear not, with weak and timorous dread, 
The straight and narrow path to tread ; 

L 



218 



Though thorns and briars strew the way, 
No gentle zephyrs round thee play ; 
Though lightnings dart with vivid flash, 
And rolling thunders fearful crash y 
Though warring elements of earth 
May strangle courage in its birth ;; 
Yet fear thee not, though distant far, 
The glorious, brilliant morning star, 
Will light thee o'er the stormy deep — 
Will guide thee o'er the rugged steep — 
Will sure the troubled waters smooth, 
And e'er the way-worn traveller sooth ; — 
And, when the cares of life are o'er, 
Will guide thee safely to the shore, 
To join the heavenly choral band 
In the far and the better land; 
Where joy is an eternal round — 
And piety eternal crowned — 
Where all is happiness and love 
In the rubied realms above — 
Where sits enthroned, his bright abode> 
The Great, Immortal Triune God ! 






THE FUNERAL BELL. 



Heard ye the tones so mournfully clear 
Borne by the winds, with many a tear, 

The sound of the funeral knell ? 
Bidding frail man to think while 'tis time, 
Lest the morrow for him bear the chime 

Of the sad — the sonorous bell. 

Saw ye the mourner's sorrowful eye 
Steal o'er the dead with many a sigh, 

Unheeding the funeral knell ; 
With heart- stricken grief, bend o'er the bier, 
Where lay her hopes of happiness here, 

Now deaf to the sonorous bell ? 

Heard ye the orphan's pitiful shriek 
Kending the air — affliction's outbreak, 
At the chime of the funeral knell ? 
l2 



220 THE FUNERAL BELL. 

Parent and friend beneath the cold sod, 
The power unknown of the " chastening rod/ 
He moans with the sonorous bell. 

Saw ye the priest, in holiness clad, 
Slowly advancing, solemnly sad, 

As sounded the funeral knell ? 
Servant of him who wept o'er the dead^ 
Like his master a tear then he shed, 

And mute was the sonorous belh 

Heard ye the accents breathed on the ear, 
Accents of hope, of mercy and fear, 

"When hushed was the funeral knell ? 
Oh ! in spirit and heart let us pray, 
That we welcome in faith the last day, 

When for us tolls the sonorous bell I 



ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF 
Mrs. L — . 



She 's gone — the faithful wife, the cherished friend, 
In many a chequered year of weal and woe, 
Who through each fitful change content would lend 
Her power to sooth in sympathetic flow. 

She's gone — who honored well a mother's name, 
Devoted to her children's early years ; 
Who budding gradual to a riper claim, 
Increased her joys, increased her hopes and fears. 

She 's gone — whose winning manners all hearts won, 
And, moulded with benignity and grace, 
Whose every word was charity's own tone, 
And every look benevolence might trace. 



222 

She 's gone — whose merry laugh rang cheerily, 
And gladdened every spirit by its joy ; 
With whom no lingering time hung wearily — 
No wish the bright illusion to destroy. 

She 's gone — her laugh subsided to a smile — 
That smile assumed the ghastliness of death, 
And, after faintly fluttering awhile, 
Ebbed away gently with the vital breath. 



She '$ gone — and the inevitable doom 
Of all that live, however loved and dear, 
Has swept her to the insatiable tomb, 
And left to child and husband but a tear ! 



OLD MARTHA. 



Our pathway leads but to a precipice ; 
And all must follow, fearful as it is ! 
From the first step 'tis known ; but, no delay ! 
On, 'tis decreed. We tremble and obey." 

Rogers. 



Hark ! 'tis the passing bell ! another spirit hath 
shuffled off its mortal coil — hath quitted its earthly- 
tenement, and entered the boundless fields of eter- 
nity. Mysterious separation ! toll — toll — how so- 
lemnly does the deep measured knell fall on the 
unexpectant ear ! Whether in the haunts of dissipa- 
tion, the luxurious abode of the wealthy, to the 
pampered ear of the worldling or the tuned atten- 
tion of the christian ; to all, its brazen tongue tells 
of dissolution ! — impartial unsparing dissolution ! I 
have heard some say, why continue so melancholy 
a custom ? which is but a remnant of superstition, 
and can be of no avail to the dead, while to the 






224 OLD MARTHA. 

living it is an occasion of mourning and of woe, 
making the bereaved heart bleed afresh, and casting 
an unnecessary cloud over the sunshine of exist- 
ence. Call it superstition if thou wilt, oh, thought- 
less and inconsiderate youth ! thy very words tend 
to prove its utility. It is a usage of antiquity 
and was named the " passing bell," or " soul bell/ - ' 
from the circumstance of its being tolled or rung 
while the spirit was in the act of passing from time 
into eternity — the separating of the soul from the 
body. It had a twofold object; — to rouse the sur- 
vivor from a lethargic and self-complacent secu- 
rity to think of his own frail tenure, and also to 
invite his prayers for blessings on the soul's rest of 
the dying — to whose wandering sense we may well 
imagine the solemn dirge would appear fraught with 
harmony beyond itself, and bearing on its measured 
intonations the hopes of a brighter sphere ; while 
the lengthened pause which elapsed between each 
successive sound, would seem, by its loud and la- 
boured efforts to bespeak a sympathy with the 
breath, struggling to be free. Surely there is some- 
thing very beautiful in the answer to this call — the 



OLD MARTHA. 225 

instantly ceasing from all occupation, and laying 
aside each selfish gratification, to retire into the 
sacred closet, to shut its door on the busy world and 
then, from the inmost recesses of the philanthropic 
heart, pour forth the pure frankincense of prayer to 
the Father who seeth in secret, that he would shed the 
rays of divine mercy, and, sanctifying the hovering 
spirit, graciously receive it into blessedness. Then 
the heaving bell is hushed, and all is still ; and while 
the appalling silence creeps over the vital frame, as 
if the very pulse of nature had ceased to beat, who 
so insensible as not to feel that awful death-pause ? 

The present custom of using the bell, apparently 
only as a vehicle of information to the neighbour- 
hood that one of its members has gone to his rest, 
and no longer calling on the living to intercede at 
the mercy- seat for the happy passage of a departed 
brother to the world of spirits, leaves still one most 
important and imperative duty, concentrating as it 
were the whole force of its solemn vibrations on each 
individual heart among the survivors — the sure 
herald of the doom that awaits all, indiscriminately, 
in their pilgrimage through life — the lot of huma- 



OLD MARTHA, 



nity common to all, as the punishment of original 
sin. But " as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all 
be made alive f — blessed promise of an omniscient 
and beneficent Creator ! 

It is hardly too much to say of him who is un- 
mindful, if such an one there be, of the warning 
notes of the passing bell, that death has already laid 
on him his iron hand — that although his senses may 
exist in the artificial atmosphere of worldly pursuits, 
or of idle indifference — the ear that is deaf to the 
voice of the church, to the warnings of religion, 
must shelter a heart dead to its influence — dead to 
the hopes and the fears of immortality ! 

Hark to the sweet whisperings of the Prince of 
Peace as he mourned, in his prophetic spirit, over 
the erring daughter of Zion, " O Jerusalem, Jeru- 
salem, thou that killest the prophets and stonest 
them which are sent unto thee, how often would I 
have gathered thy children together, even as a hen 
gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye 
would not ! Behold your house is left unto you de- 
solate."" 

How can we justly hope that they who will not 
hear should understand ? The wise son of David 



OLD MARTHA. 227 

says, ** Hear thou, my son and be wise, and guide 
thine heart in the way." What way ? the straight 
and narrow path — the way that leadeth to eternal 
life. 

List then, young christian, to the heaving knell — 
the warning note, and let it sink deep into thy heart, 
sweeping from it the dregs of sin, and garnishing it 
with the light of faith and the sun of righteousness. 

But whose death is the bell now announcing ? A 
sheep from the village flock — an humble widow 
borne down by the weight of age and infirmities. 
More than fourscore years had circled her frail 
tenure, and latterly her life had been indeed but 
labour and sorrow. Old Martha was, what her poor 
neighbours called a " harmless old woman," imply- 
ing that she was no busy body — no meddler in the 
affairs of others — no brawler in the streets— no 
grumbler at her poverty — no complainer of the small - 
ness of her parish pittance — no ungracious fault- 
finder at the treatment of its appointed distributor. 
Martha was a stayer at home, neat and quiet in her 
habits, gentle to her equals, respectful in her beha- 
viour towards her superiors and grateful for every 
little kindness and attention to her wants : — but the 



228 OLD MARTHA. 

secret of all this was, that old Martha was a christian 
— a humble and sincere christian. 

The sound of that bell, which now wings her soul 
to eternity, as it bore its part in the Sabbath chime, 
never found her deaf to its call. It was too welcome 
a summons for old Martha to loiter on her way. Her 
simple toilet was soon made, and early prepared she 
would stand awhile on her cottage threshold, for she 
lived within the very shadow of the church, and in 
her red cloak, her time- dyed little black bonnet, and 
her clean checked apron, she would carefully lock 
her door and, depositing the key in her somewhat 
capacious pocket, would totter over the churchyard 
path and join with the wise, the wealthy and the 
poor in devout aspirations to her God and their 
God. She was wise unto salvation, was rich in faith 
though poor in spirit, and drank into her thirsting 
soul those words of sweet promise, given by the 
tongue of truth " Blessed are the poor in spirit for 
their' s is the kingdom of heaven." " Blessed are 
they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness 
for they shall be filled." 

Never was Old Martha absent from the Lord's 



OLD MARTHA. 229 

table when the divine feast was spread, nor failed 
the widow's mite to be cast into the little treasury, 
with a heart overflowing with thankful piety. Oft 
in her later days, when increasing infirmities ren- 
dered her weak and easily fatigued with the length- 
ened service, I have observed some neighbour, who 
had braved with more impunity the rough winds of 
time and poverty, step forward and lend her aid to 
the weaker vessel. Indeed, the cheerfulness and self- 
sacrifice with which they are ever ready to aid one 
another in sickness or in want, is a most estimable 
trait in the character of the poorer members of our 
community, which I have never seen deviated from 
during the many years my lot has been cast among 
a rural population. With a gentleness and atten- 
tion that would have done honor to higher breeding, 
this poor sister of charity would safely conduct the 
widow to her cottage — who then rousing the mould- 
ering embers on her hearth, would patiently await 
the coming of a nice plate of some little delicacy, 
which each succeeding sabbath brought from the 
more abundant table of her pastor. Indeed, his 
greatest pleasure was ever to administer to the wants 



230 OLD MARTHA. 

of the fatherless, and the widow, to give to him 
that needed; yet, while he gave of the food that 
perisheth, failed not to season it with the salt of 
christian exhortation, and to nourish it with the 
waters of life, trusting to the great master of the 
vineyard graciously to give the increase. 

Thus time flew on, sweeping away gradually each 
obstacle to the tomb ; but Old Martha was not des- 
tined to glide into her last resting-place without added 
suffering — some dregs of humanity still lingered in 
that simple heart, the silver had to be yet further 
refined to fit it for celestial currency. A dangerous 
illness confined her to her bed for many weeks, when 
a partial recovery attended with accumulated infirm- 
ities compelled the parish authorities to provide for 
her another home, but the difficulty was great to 
find one that would ensure her comfort and attention 
in her helplessness. One was at last selected, and 
with many a regretful sigh, she was borne from the 
humble roof that had sheltered her widowhood in 
peace and contentment, and consigned to the cold 
welcome of a stranger. 

It may be naturally asked had this poor widow 



OLD MARTHA. 231 

no friend, no child to watch the decline of her re- 
spected age ? It must be recollected that she was not 
among those, the rich, who have many friends ; poor 
Martha, however, had a son, who with his young 
wife she had harboured for the first years of their 
marriage, and, sharing with them the comforts of her 
lowly dwelling, had overtasked her waning powers in 
nursing their children. After awhile their family in- 
creased beyond the possibility of her cottage accom- 
modations, and they parted, and now in the hour of 
her need he offered her no home — and he was the 
only son of his mother, and she was a widow ! 
There is that implanted in the heart of man which 
makes it thrill with anguish to see a parent deserted 
by a child. But I judge not, there is One that 
judgeth. The Lord knoweth the heart. 

Months wore away and with them lingered old 
Martha, and, as each fillet snapt of her thread of life, 
her subdued spirit became chastened and purified for 
her great change. The person with whom she lived 
was very neat and orderly, and tended her with 
much kindness, but she had the misfortune not 
only to possess a very bad temper, but what was far 



232 



OLD MARTHA. 



more reprehensible, she exercised no control over 
it ; and though her meek and helpless inmate never 
roused her ire, she was a solitary exception — every- 
body in turn felt the weight of her thundering de- 
nunciations, and the ear, accustomed only to the 
peace of her quiet cot, was now daily made to throb 
under the volubility of her irascible companion. 

A light at length burst through this gloomy 
atmosphere, for a distant relative of poor Martha, 
actuated by compassion, or perhaps by a still better 
motive, requested that she might be removed to her 
care ; and well and kindly has been discharged the 
self-imposed duty. In that retreat it was, far from 
the bustle of an uncongenial world that this humble 
christian calmly awaited the approach of death, not 
to her the king of terrors, but the harbinger of eter- 
nity ; to her faith and hope, the pilot of ' l that peace 
which passeth all understanding." Scarcely a year 
has past and old Martha is now called to her rest, 
and we trust that " delivered from the burden of the 
flesh," she may, through Christ, inherit " joy and 
felicity" hereafter. 

Seldom does a sheep depart from our village fold 






OLD MARTHA. 233 

fraught with so just a hope and expectation of hap- 
piness. Oh ! when we listen to those funeral tones, 
let us pause in our career of trifling and of sin, let 
us search into the depths of our hearts and inquire 
of ourselves, if we also he as well prepared for the 
awful summons as was our departed sister — if we 
could, without a sigh, relinquish our claim on the 
endearments of social felicity, and above all if we 
now possess a conscience void of offence both to- 
wards God and towards man. 

Happy indeed is the state of him, whose heart 
responds to the answering conviction of its purity ! 

This bell, to the man of pleasure tells of the flit- 
ting things of time, the passing of worldly sweets, 
and shows to his averted eye, that the apple he has 
so long cherished has but dust for its core. To the 
ear of the man of God, it is as a voice from the dead 
urging him not to be weary of well-doing, but that 
mounting step by step on the ladder of mortality he 
should, with a firm heart and a right mind, attain to 
the celestial goal. To all it is the proclamation of 
an approaching change, inevitable, certain ; a blow 
not to be parried, of a doom that awaits each and all 



234 OLD MARTHA. 

of the inhabitants of earth — for God is no respecter 
of persons — and what is man that he should have 
respect unto him, whose worthless casket is of the 
earth, earthy, though the incased gem is a living 
spirit ! 

Hail then, thou solemn herald of the tomb ! ap- 
prizer of the transitoriness of life ! — in warning the 
sinner from the error of his ways, thou biddest him 
retire to his closet — to pray to the Father who seeth 
in secret — to commune with his own heart and to be 
still ! " Lord teach us so to number our days that 
we may apply our hearts unto wisdom." 



THE LOST BABE. 



" Not lost but gone before." 

" Death bath come up amongst my little flock, 
And taken one." 

Heraud. 



Bud of the poet's bower 
Chilled in its bloom, 
Born in a wintry honr 
To deck the tomb ; 
Too fragile for the earth's wild blast, 
On the summer gale of heaven 'tis cast. 

Its odours yet unknown 

To mortals here, 
To the parent stem alone 
Vouchsafed to bear 
Till now, its petals wide expand, 
Fearless and free, in the better land. 



236 THE LOST BABE. 

Germ of immortal seed ! 

Transplanted thou 
To the unfading vernal mead, 
Secure dost blow, 
All radiant in the genial sky. 
With Him who rules eternity. 

Blest spirit ! whose swift flight 

The heart Vcore grieves, 
Yet on the sombre night 
One bright star leaves 
In hope, though by the earth-foe riven, 
The poet- stem may re-unite in heaven ! 



A CHILD'S SLAVE SONG. 



Why have you sold me 
From mother so dear ? 

Why have you sold me 
The white man to fear ? 

Why have you sold me 
To slavery's thong ? 

Why have you sold me ? 
I ne'er did you wrong ! 

Why have you sold me, 
My senses to shake ? 

Why have you sold me, 
My young heart to break ? 

Why have you sold me. 
So far from my home ? 

Why have you sold me, 
With strangers to roam ? 



238 A CHILD^S SLAVE SONG. 

"Why have yon sold me ? 

My heart tells me why : 
Why have you sold me ? 

You know I must die ! 



"Why have you sold me ? 

My life-blood ebbs fast ! 
Oh ! why have you sold me ? 

My pangs are now i^ast ! 






PENSEZ A MO! 



When the rose-bud peeps from its mossy veil? 
And the blushing petals the day-dawn hail, 
Its beauty to perfect, that I Ve watched for thee, 
To place in thy bosom for sanctity, 

Pensez a moi. 

When the joyous note of the wood-bird thrills, 
Who the echoing glade with its music fills, 
As each guardian mate in the feathered train 
Melodious joins in the choral strain, 

Pensez a moi. 

When the burning glow of the noon-tide sun 
Tells the trembling flower that its course is run — 
Like the race of that flower my life may be 
Scorched in the bloom of maturity, 

Pensez a moi. 



240 



PENSEZ A MOI. 



When roseate rays light the earth-born bower, 
And the calm repose of the sunset hour 
Bid voiceless thoughts from the heart-cells bring 
Incense to bear on seraphic wing, 

Pensez a moi. 

When the love-glance beams in each gleeful eye, 
And the smiles of affection dance buoyant by, 
Those silvery chords that, unbound for me, 
Left me free to welcome eternity, 

Pensez a moi. 

When the village chime on the still air floats, 
And lulls thee to peace with its solemn notes, 
In answering the call to the summons where 
Together we've bent in the suppliant prayer, 

Pensez a moi. 



When wanders thy heart to the spirit land — 
Thy banner unfurled on its glorious strand — 
When ethereal fire to thy soul shall send 
Its quivering bliss — then oh ! then, sweet friend, 

Pensez a moi. 






MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 



" All tasks are o'er ; 
The Watchers languish in their guardian tents ; 
Nature's heart pauseth, in whose pulse we live ; 
And Man doth slumber with the Elements." 

Heraud's Descent, 



In the dark watches of the silent night, 

When every sound is hushed and nature sleeps ; 

Not the last sleep that dims the joyous sight, 

And chilly o'er the crumbling earth-worm creeps, 

But in that gentle renovating rest, 

Which fits each object of creation's love, 

To rise with ardour and with increased zest, 

To act the part assigned him from above : 

— In those still hours, when all abroad seems peace, 

And every eye fast steeptd in soft repose, 

When in forgetfulness the mind has ease 

In the calm quiet that around it flows, 

M 



242 



MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 



Oft have I pictured to my wakeful eye, 
Brooding beneath that dim nocturnal shroud, 
The sufferer's moan — the culprit's fitful cry 
Of long suppressed, despairing agony, 
Loud calling on the lowering power-hung cloud, 
To fall and sweep from off this verdant earth 
The self- doomed votary of a vicious world, 
Who scorned the promise of a Saviour's birth, 
By vengeance now to his own idol hurled I 
Then, when the soul is fast receding, 
In the eleventh hour of that departing day, 
Comes, clad in robes of mercy, speeding, 
The Sun of Righteousness with pardoning ray ; 
To show the scoffer hope beyond the grave, 
Bidding him bathe his crimson sins through faith 
In his pure spotless blood, who died to save ; 
Then, white as snow, await the approach of death. 

The widow next, her mournful vigils keeping, 
I see, with all the vividness of truth, 
In fulness of maternal anguish weeping, 
O'er the lone bier where rests her son's fair youth, 
Whose early bud of promise long had given, 
To the o'ercharged depths of woman's kindling heart, 



MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 243 

An earnest of the full-blown fruit of heaven, 
Urging her meek to bear her part, 
As o'er the arid wilderness below, 
For one brief fleeting moment — untold space, 
She fearless treads the dull wide waste of woe, 
And earns through Christ her meed of pardoning 
grace. 
While the dull glimmer of my night-lamp waning 
Repose invites from speculating care, 
The low soft music of my sweet one's plaining, 
As if the dreams of infancy might share 
The wandering thoughts that pierce the darkling 

hour, 
Mild murmurings breathe athwart the echoing gloom; 
The spotless brow of that young slumbering flower, 
Of earth and heaven, seems mingling for the tomb. 
Of such, oh ! be the languid form of age, 
Whose silvery locks, adown the furrowed cheek, 
Of many a winter tells on Time's long page, 
Vie with the rolling tears that, coursing, seek 
Peace for the spirit, wending on its way, 
Through the dense meshes of the tangled pass, 
Repentance for its guide, while voices pray 
m 2 



244 



MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 



From hidden springs, that 'mid the long dank grass 

Gurgled unseen, now laboring to be free 

From chains, by demons forged of the fire-bound 

king, 
The broad way's sovereign lord; — whose arts fail 

hopelessly, 
When the soft dulcet tones of seraphs sing, 
Who tend the narrow gate, and joyful now 
The flickering life-spark from the fiend-grasp bear, 
That with rich hope and in reflected glow, 
Puts off earth's dross, celestial robes to wear. 

While visioning these varied scenes — a light 
Shed its sweet influence o'er renewed earth : 
So may to me, great God, a gleam more bright 
Heavenward arise as incense of new birth ! 



THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 



Brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be : 

* * * * 

He that blessed thine infant head f 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer, 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee played, 
Rest beneath their own oak shade, 
Far, far hence !" 

Mrs. Hemans<. 



It was on one of those cheerless days just preceding 
christmas, in which the rich man, folding around 
him his ample purple, bids the winds blow and the 
storms beat, while he, unconscious of the suffering 
and misery without, establishes himself with care- 
less ease in his cushioned chair, and conning over 
the newsy columns of his daily paper, contracts, for 
a season, his little world within the book-covered 
walls of his luxurious study: — One of those days 



246 THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 

in which the busy boy gathers up his instruments of 
summer warfare ; his bows, his arrows, his fishing- 
tackle, being all promiscuously stowed in some safe 
receptacle, there quietly to abide, chrysalis like, until 
the vivifying influence of a spring sun, shall once 
more bring them into action; while the dormant 
skate is eagerly sought, and with a gleeful anticipa- 
tion borne off in triumph by the mischief-loving 
urchin, who, creeping stealthily from the paternal 
roof, sallies forth in quest of some field worthy his 
adventurous spirit : — One of those days when even 
before the first glimmering of light, the cottager 
rises from his humble couch, and rapidly swallowing 
his scanty and hard-earned meal, draws his hat over 
his weather-beaten face; when, laden with his imple- 
ments of toil, he braves the bitter blast, warmed by 
contentment, and, with a spirit bowed to his allotted 
state, wends his slow and measured way to his 
wonted labour : — It was on one of those chill sunless 
days, when the very verdure is crisped by the pinch- 
ing frost, leaving no pliant blade to tell of nutri- 
tious vegetation, that in a populous and pretty 
village in one of the midland counties, my eye 



THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 247 

rested on its interesting church-yard — in no barren 
solitary waste — no gloomy isolated spot, where the 
melancholy cypress, or the sombre yew throws its 
dense shadow over many a rustic sod, excluding 
every ray of light, and seeming alone to bid us " sow 
in tears/' 

The scene before me was far different. In the 
centre of that cheerful village, a few feet above the 
surrounding level, and, basking in the radiance of 
its ivy-mantled temple of God, arose this last home 
of many a mouldering form, arresting the step of the 
thoughtless, and not unfrequently attracting the 
admiring gaze of the traveller, who chanced to pass 
its neat white fence, around which the trailing 
periwinkle wound its evergreen stems, studded here 
and there with an amethystine star that peeped 
from among the foliage, bountifully spreading its 
welcome robe, now that nature, as it were, seemed 
unclothed, to cover the foot of the elm, the ches- 
nut and the poplar, that stood in naked majesty, 
like sentinels guarding the sacred precincts, and 
with arms uplifted towards the vaulted heavens, 
pointing the understanding heart, the way to that 



248 THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 

goal to which all aspirings should tend ! The tall 
white head-stone and the less presuming, though 
more numerous, green mounds that dotted its turfy 
level, showed that death had not been idle here — 
and even while I was thus musing, an aged figure 
opened the little gate and slowly approached 
retired spot, where the tall rank grass luxuriated 
beneath the shelter of a patriarchal walnut tree, 
that had, unharmed, buffeted with many a winter's 
storm; but whose friendly shade had, as yet, re- 
mained unsought for the passing dead. 

The old man's shoulder was quickly relieved from 
its burden, when the busy spade, guided by his 
trembling hand, marked out the chosen spot, and 
he began, with earnest industry, his mournful task. 
Toil on, old man, while yet is day — not long shall 
thine aged limbs perform their accustomed functions 
— not long shall thy silvery locks float carelessly 
in the breeze — not long shall thy drooping frame 
shiver in the blast I for the night cometh for thee — 
yea is near at hand, in which no work may be done. 
Oh ! " Cast off then the works of darkness, and 
put on the armour of light, watch and pray, for thou 



THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 249 

knowest not the day nor the hour in which the Son 
of Man cometh!" I looked upon his furrowed 
cheek, and saw the tear steal trickling down and 
fall on the crumbling earth, that yielded to his 
feeble efforts. Why weepest thou, friend ? — are these 
thoughts also thy thoughts ? or does the ready tear 
flow for him, whose narrow bed thou art preparing, 
whose strength of manhood is snapt asunder, while 
thy decrepit age must for a while linger on ? Such 
are the inscrutable decrees of an All-wise Provi- 
dence. 

The old man still labored, leaning often on his 
spade to rest his weary frame ; measuring ever and 
anon the length and breadth of the yawning grave, 
then, smoothing its mouldering sides, he scraped the 
earth from the funeral tool, and slowly and sorrow- 
fully moved towards his home. 

The departed One, he for whom this melancholy 
task had been performed, had, almost in his child- 
hood, left his native west — the home of his infancy — 
the companions of his earliest hours and the partakers 
of his simple joys, to attend on a family in the ca- 
pacity of household servant ; he had past his youth, 
m 5 



250 



THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 



was in the prime of life, and had witnessed many a 
chequered year tangle the web of time, since he first 
came to this distant village. His master experi- 
encing the trials of age and infirmity, had, through 
the portals of death, reached that " bourne from 
whence no traveller returns." The mistress, too, 
had numbered the allotted years of man, but death, 
as yet, had spared her to see her long-tried domestic 
become a victim to a malignant and fatal fever which, 
permitting him no time to " put his house in order," 
had, with unusual virulence, hurriedly numbered 
him with the dead. 

A few hours had struck when the solemn toll of 
the funeral bell called my attention to the last sad 
rites of mortality — deep and heavy was the sound, 
as it burst through the gathering mist, which ushered 
in that December evening — bleak and cold the wind 
whistled round the sacred shrine, making the old 
trees creak and bend beneath its power. Again ap- 
peared the aged sexton, bearing with difficulty a 
time-worn bench, on which to rest the coffin, while 
the bearers pause from their soilsome walk. A dark 
mass was distinguished in the distance — near and 



THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 251 

more near it slowly approached, mounted the easy- 
flight of steps and entered the consecrated ground — 
and who stood there ? The mourning kindred — the 
weeping friends— the sorrowing neighbours ? Alas, 
no — not even the outward garb of woe shrouded the 
sleeping dead ! The rustic bearers were habited in 
their coats of many colours, and one solitary figure 
alone followed those deserted remains, and she, a 
stranger, who, braving for a poor return the fever's 
eontagious power, had truly tended his bed of sick- 
ness, received his last sigh, had closed the eye of 
death and, now, with a gentle but tearless sorrow, 
stood to the departed alien in the character of chief 
mourner 1 

Folding her red cloak more tightly around, to 
protect her from the chill damp of that winter's eve, 
she patiently awaited the commencement of the ser- 
vice; nor waited long — for the village priest, who 
was indeed the pastor of his people ; ever ready, ever 
kind, doing good unto all men, and avoiding even 
he appearance of evil — immediately advanced with 
his white robes waving in peaceful purity, and in 
the finest tones of his sonorous and impressive voice, 



252 THE FRIENDLESS DEAD. 

began " I am the resurrection and the life, saith the 
Lord," I listened with attentive reverence till the 
words died on my ear ; it was a brief interval, but I 
had asked myself many an important question, and 
made many a good and holy resolution, before the 
funeral group emerged from the holy edifice. The 
day was fast closing in, and I could but very indi- 
stinctly discriminate between the objects before me 
which but added to the solemnity of the scene. 
That fine voice was still audible — how tenderly did 
I dwell on its harmonious tones ! Truly it seemed a 
voice from the dead, powerful, impressive, inspired ! 
Every word found an echo in my bosom, and as I 
followed them to the end — the coffin had been 
lowered to its dark receptacle — the earth cast upon 
the body, and our brother committed to his kindred 
dust — I felt my heart subdued within me; — and,, 
contemn my weakness if thou wilt heroic reader ! 
when I confess that I turned me from the humbling 
scene and wept for the man who had died and left 
no friend behind ! 



NIGHT. 



The glorious orb of day has sunk to rest. 
And o'er the earth a sable garb has thrown, 
For nature in her fickleness to wear, 
As, from this upper hemisphere, she mourns 
His absence brief; and welcome e'er the maid 
Who alternates with him the course of time. 
Although of sombre mien comes darksome night, 
Gloomily overshadowing all around ; 
To weary eyes that long have vigils kept — 
To toil-worn frame, oppressed with labor hard 
And dearly tasked, the happy harbinger 
Of sweet repose ! The lonely wanderer, 
Homeless and poor, along his rugged path 
His tottering footsteps drags, and hails with joy 
Thy dim approach, as with slow, stealthy step, 
Within some hovel rude he shelter seeks. 
More welcome still to contemplation sweet, 



254 



NIGHT. 



Is the pure calmness of thy silent hours. 

Thou dreary night ! emblem of man's last home 

In his mortality — darkness alike 

O'er both her mantle spreads, and to them both 

A heavenly light appears, with myriads less 

Enthroned in purest majesty on high : 

The better part, the undying soul, to lead 

To Him who made them — man and nature's God ! 



TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

THEODORE HOOK, Esq. 



Oh ! not through Fulham's sylvan shades alone 
Shall the sad voice of lamentation flow ; 
O'er tower and plain shall sweep the dirge-like moan, 
And echo bear the plainings of their woe. 

While hill and dale, through Britain's verdant isle, 
Shall wail in chorus for the high soul fled ; 
With shreds of sweet remembrance raise a pile, 
Worthy the ashes of the gifted dead ! 

Tears of the gentle and the courteous brave, 
Shall long his lone sepulchral home bedew ; 
And o'er the poet and the scholar's grave 
The muses' choicest flowers in mourning strew. 



256 TO THE MEMORY OF THEODORE HOOK. 

And well may weep those pensile willow boughs, 
The lone wind murmur through the drooping trees, 
No longer now the stream of genius flows, 
That erst breathed joyous as the summer breeze. 

Untuned the lute by the south winds' softening power, 
Which o'er the flower of wit has shed its blight, 
While on that summer breeze is borne afar 
A kindred spirit in its upward flight. 



Though silence reign, and mute the dulcet tone, 
Thy requiem, gifted Hook, most meet to sing ; 
Indulgent be, as thou wert wont, to One 
Who dares this tribute to thy Memory bring ! 



FAREWELL TO THE RECENT DEAD. 



Farewell ! beloved departed One, 

Thy spark of life is fled, 
Nor dimmed nor quenched the spirit's own ; 

Though numbered with the dead. 

Bright shone the light of truth in thee— 

The light of life and love : 
Thy chastened soul was meet to flee, 

Called by the power above ! 

Patient and meek thy course has been 

One calm unruffled stream ; 
Though many a cloud overcast the scene, 

None pierced thy peaceful dream. 

Though frail the stem that held thee here, 

Life's fair ephemeral flower ! 
Thy gentle head, unscathed by fear, 

Felt not the tempest's power ! 



258 FAREWELL TO THE RECENT DEAD. 

The " Rock of Ages" nourished thee, 
With true enduring faith : 

The blood of Christ was shed for thee, 
And soothed the sting of death. 






In active hope and humble trust, 
Thou art softly sunk to rest, 

Thy form is with its kindred dust- 
Thy spirit with the blest ! 



THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 



" They sleep in secret, — but their sod 
Unknown to man, is marked by God 1" 

Mrs. Hemans. 



There appears to me nothing that so readily finds 
its way to the " heart of hearts," that sanctuary of 
the best feelings of one's nature, as the contempla- 
tion of a village churchyard — calm amid the turmoil 
of a restless world, and hallowed by the vicinity of 
the house of prayer, where all who bend the knee to 
the Triune God, enjoy His presence who has said, 
" Where two or three are gathered together in my 
name, there will I be in the midst of them." It 
gladdens the spirit of the anxious searcher after 
peace, as the lamp of night, piercing the storm- 
cloud, cheers the eye of the traveller through the 
gloom, drawing the mind gently from the hectic and 



260 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 

evanescent colouring of time to the unfading bloom 
of eternity. How pleasant is it to turn from the 
dismal, chilling burial ground of a city, where 
no ray of sunshine or unadulterated light beams 
over the forgotten dust ; where even the sepulchral 
stone is incrusted with smoke and the general im- 
purities of the atmosphere; where the dead are 
brought, like vegetables to the fair, to be disposed of 
by the half dozen at a time, the hired mourners 
feeling as little compunction as the salesman at 
parting with his charge, which ere long will be 
trodden under foot, in levity or thoughtlessness, by 
the scornful and the proud; — where all seems 
strange and new, from the infant, admitted into the 
pale of the church, to the lifeless form interred 
within its shadow ; for in the ever changing inhabi- 
tants of a town the same roof will cover those, whose 
very persons are unknown to each other,— literally 
" birds of passage, " since one cometh and another 
goeth, and their place is nowhere to be found, save in 
the city burial-ground, that takes no cognizance of its 
tenants, but by putting forth the announcement of 
the fact on its sign of stone, of all things there the 



THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 261 

only one grown old in its place,, while over that 
the mould of premature age has been unsparingly 
strewn : — pleasant, truly., is it to turn from this re- 
volting scene^ to the tranquil seclusion of a village 
churchyard — that, far from the jarring elements of 
discord, stretches forth its verdant bosom fresh and 
inviting, and seems to say, " Come to me, ye that 
are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest!" 
■ — rest to the troubled spirit from the vain longings 
of ambition ; repose to the suffering and the hopeful, 
sweet as on the bosom of their Lord ! When day 
declines, and I have marked yon venerable pile, 
steeped in the roseate hues of sunset, glowing and 
godlike, as reflected from Him, whose throne is 
light, I have thought of the hoary head silvered by 
age, and whitened with the purity of regeneration, 
ripe for the harvest, — flickering awhile on the verge 
of earth, and throwing around him the rich beauties 
of holiness ; and when the last ray has fled, and all 
is clothed in the sable robe of night, 'tis as the 
sombre quiet of the grave, silently reposing till the 
day-star from on high shall visit the earth, and the 
sun, radiant in the glory of the heavens, " shall 



262 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARL. 

arise with healing on his wings." Where can we 
find the purest and most refined feelings of humanity 
so beautifully developed, as among the unsophis- 
ticated and untaught occupants of these simple 
mounds ? 

I accompanied Filia to a rural burial ground ; she 
led me to a grave somewhat more elevated than the 
rest, and while I read the inscription on the head- 
stone, she reverently bent the knee of piety, and 
plucking a blade of grass, nurtured by the dust of a 
parent, gently placed it in her bosom ! — It was a 
touching scene, and the unbidden tear flowed in 
sympathy with the sweet sorrow of the mourner. 

The village churchyard, that is pressed by the 
merry foot of infancy, bears him anon to lisp his 
first lesson at the Sunday school — and with more 
sober step, to prepare for taking on himself the ful- 
filment of his baptismal vows In after years it yields 
to the firmer step of manhood, as he passes on to 
plight his troth to the chosen of his heart, often the 
companion of his childhood ; and when age and in- 
firmities have weaned him from the world, the same 
sacred soil that has claimed his kindred for genera- 



THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 263 

tions past, opens its gloomy depths and receives the 
casket, whose jewel is called to adorn a crown of 
surpassing glory ; truly may he be said to " sleep 
with his fathers ! " But where are the bones of him 
buried in a city? Darkness and infamy too fre- 
quently can alone tell where ! — perhaps strung to- 
gether, and incased in the sanctum of the anatomist ! 
— perhaps scattered to the wind by the zeal or the 
levity of the student, or, more revolting still, adorned 
with silver and gold, to be made the instrument of 
administering to the midnight orgies of the infidel ! 
And shall not that re-embodied scull rise in accusa- 
tion against the voluptuous, sacrilegious Saducee ? 

How soon are the fairest and the most powerful for- 
gotten ! Each passeth as a shadow, yet must there 
have been beauties in all, for all were moulded by 
an unerring hand, and stamped with the divine 
image, from the day-flower, whose life sets with the 
sun, that evening shrouds and the night-dews weep 
for, to the amaranth that flourishes beneath the 
rainbow of emerald, and is sunned by the " Sun of 
Righteousness ! " 

Turn then with me from the gorgeous pageant of 



264 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 

the city — from the imposing plumes of the wealthy 
and the great — to dwell with undazzled eye on the 
lowly bier of the villager, and feel at thy heart's core 
the unaffected grief of its follower, who, drooping 
beneath the weight of her bereavement, yet lifts the 
eye of resignation* to heaven, and to the measured 
tollings of the funeral knell breathes forth in faith 
and hope, " Thy will be done ! " 

(c It was but a dewy greensward bed, 
Meet for the rest of a peasant head : 
But love — oh ! lovelier than all beside ! — 
That lone place guarded and glorified." 

Were it not that my kindred lie entombed in a 
vaulted sepulchre, and that with all the yearnings of 
affection, strong even in death, I wish that my dust 
may mingle with the dust of my parents and my 
children, I would select the spot beneath yon willow 
for my long home of rest — for surely it is sweet to 
know that, though the world may jeer and laugh, as 
the breeze that wantons with the pall, and may turn 
with indifference from the lifeless burden it covers, 
there is still one living thing, created by the same 



THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 265 

great power, and spotless as when first from the 
bosom of its mother earth, that shall droop, and 
shed tears in the dews of heaven over our grave; 
and sweeter still, that that pellucid shower should 
call forth an emblem of the immortality of the soul 
from our very dust, in the springing grass that rises 
in matured verdure, meet for the scythe of time — 
the gathering of the grain— the consummation of all 
things J 



SHROVE-TUESDAY. 



"What sound comes forth from the leafless boughs ? 

'Tis the breath of the sinner's sigh, 
Piercing the gloom of the guilty soul, 

As it wings its way on high. 

Thoughts are poured from the wandering mind, 

In many a copious stream, 
To the listening ear of a Saviour Lord — 

Thence to catch one pardoning gleam. 

Feelings burst from the overcharged heart, 

Through the low confession's moan, 
And all is humbly cast at the foot 

Of heaven's eternal throne. 



SHROVE-TUESDAY. 267 

Oh ! shrive us Thou of the mercy-seat, 

Lord of the earth and sky, 
Who alone canst still each troubled wave — 

Receive the sinners' sigh ! 



n2 



GOOD-FRIDAY. 



Behold the Lamb to slaughter led, 
Reviled and scorned and buffeted : 

On bended knee, 

In mockery, 
Is bailed the Lamb of Bethlehem ! 

Behold the Man of Sorrows now, 
Beneath the weight of sin and woe ; . 

Not sin His own, 

No sin was known 
By Him the Lamb of Bethlehem ! 

More pure than snow's unsullied light, 
Than heaven-born sun, more chastely bright, 

No stain of earth 

Had marred the birth 
Of Mary's child of Bethlehem ! 



GOOD-FRIDAY. 269 

More meek than martyrs' laboring soul, 
That drained the dregs from suffering's bowl : 

His spirit bowed, 

When curses loud 
Were showered o'er Him of Bethlehem ! 

Not fierce fanatic's direst rage, 

Nor ought impassioned guilt could wage, 

A murmur drew 

From Him, the true — 
The patient Lamb of Bethlehem ! 

Ah ! scourged and mocked, He bare the tree. 
And wound His way to Calvary ! 

That scene of woe, 

Where soon would flow 
The Lamb's pure blood of Bethlehem ! 

The fatal cross see raised on high ! 
Where His last dying agony, 

With pardon wove 

Transcendent love 
The spotless Lamb of Bethlehem I 



270 GOOD-PEIDAY. 

The serpent-fiend overpowered at last, 
The spirit of the Perfect passed ! 

The boon obtained, 

Man's pardon gained, 
The martyred Lamb of Bethlehem ! 

Earth quaked — the rocks and temple rent- 
The tomb gave up its buried saint — 

The thunders pealed, 

The mountains reeled, 
When died the Lamb of Bethlehem ! 

Nature in deepest mourning drest, 
And friend and foe by awe opprest — 

That solemn hour, 

Confessed the power 
Of Him — the Lamb of Bethlehem ! 




EASTER-DAY. 



Welcome, great victor 
O'er sin and o'er death ! 
Thou art risen — art glorified — 
Star of our faith 3 

The bands of the grave 

Are riven asunder, 
And the bright flash of lightning 

Heralds the thunder. 
As elements warred 

Their master to own, 
So yawn Hades' dark caverns, 

Thy glory to crown. 

Redemption's great work 
Thou, Jesu, hast done, 
From the dark fiend's vile bondage 
Man's pardon hast won ! 



272 EASTER-DAY. 

Well may we be glad, 

And high raise the voice, 
"With unfeigned thanksgiving, 

Long, long, to rejoice. 

For thou who hast died 

Our souls to release, 
Now on earth ridest triumphant,. 

The pure Prince of Peace I 

Welcome, great victor 
O'er sin and o'er death ! 
Thou 'rt risen — art glorified— 
Star of our faith I 



THE ASCENSION. 



f( Ye men of Galilee ! why stand ye here, 
And stedfast upward gaze ? 
The clouds triumphantly your Saviour bear 
To glorious, endless days ! 

" This Jesus, whom ye see thus clothed in might 
Of heavenly majesty, 
Is rising from your wondering mortal sight, 
Lord God eternally ! 

" Believe, ye chosen band of Jesu's love, 
That he now borne on high, 
Will thus, when time is o'er, leave realms above 
To judge all righteously \" 



274 THE ASCENSION. 

So spake the angelic Messengers from heaven, 

Then plumed the cherub wing I 
Their bidding done — the word prophetic given, 

They join the Saviour King ! 






WHIT-SUNDAY. 



The Sabbath morn returning glows 
O'er Israel's blood-stained heights ; 

A hallowed peace its radiance throws 
Round Salem's temple rites. 

The welcome hour of morning prayer 
Assembled numbers greet — 

Devotion reigns unsullied where 
The pure in spirit meet. 

When lo ! a sound — a mighty wind 
Fills all that chosen place : 

Breathes in its power celestial mind, 
The harbinger of grace.! 

Bright cloven tongues of fire descend, 
From Heaven's own holy shrine, 

To strengthen, teach, inspire, defend, 
Spirit of truth divine ! 



276 WHIT-SUNDAY. 

Though closed from us those gracious gifts 

Which miracled the past : 
That faith be ours, the heart uplifts, 

And gives us peace at least. 



Thy spirit, Lord, we pray thee send, 

Be thou in mercy nigh ; 
Whoe'er, through Christ, repentant bend, 

Enlighten— sanctify ! 



A HYMN OF PRAISE. 



Let the people praise thee, God ; 

let all the people praise thee. 
O let the nations be glad and sing for joy." 

Psalm lxvii. 3, 4. 



Sing, sing to our God 
Thanksgiving and praise, 

To Heaven's great king, 
Our voices we raise ! 

Who high rides above, 
Through eternity's hour, 

By glory enthroned, 
Unequalled in power ! 

Be glad and rejoice, 
The Lord is our God ! 

Tender His mercies, 

Though chastening His rod. 



278 A HYMN OP PRAISE. 

He's worthy of praise, 
Great Parent of earth ! 

Unrivalled in might, 

Whose word was its birth ! 

The heavens His throne, 
His clothing of might, 

His footstool the earth, 
All glorious His light ! 

Be joyful our hymns, 
Be grateful our praise, 

Our God is of love, 

All righteous His ways ! 

Humility's vest 

Repentance shall bring, 
Enrobed in its folds, 

Accepted we sing ; 

Accepted through Him, 
Who triumphed o'er death, 

Like Him may we rise, 
Triumphant through faith ! 



A HYMN OF PRAISE. 279 



Before the high throne, 
Our voices we raise, 

Rejoice in His love, 
And glory in praise ! 



THE CONCLUSION. 



Courteous Reader, — Who hast journeyed with 
me along the changeful course of this my first step 
on the beaten path of literature, in bidding thee 
farewell, I would fain seek thy sympathy and solicit 
thy indulgence. Many have been the elements that 
have played around us, and varied the scenes we 
have visited; together we have traced our fellow- 
being from infancy to age, have twined the blossoms 
of hope around the bridal brow of youth, have offered 
incense on the sanctified altar of matrimonial love, 
have bent in awe over the bed of the dying, and fol- 
lowed his dust in the mournful solemnity to the 
tomb ! Glowing was the early morn and exhili- 
rating its noon-tide warmth, but that summer day 
has at length waned, the shadows of evening anon 
have closed around us, but, ere yet the dull dark 
vacuum stretched onward betwixt thee and me, I 






THE CONCLUSION. 281 

sought the idle hour, and, while I wandered through 
the little vineyard myself had planted, pondering on 
the many-colored thoughts which perhaps might flit 
over its rural service and, the cultivated, refined, 
and fastidious tastes that might chance to sip at its 
weed-grown fount — my woman's heart grew faint 
within me, and the energies, which as a cordial had 
supported me along my pleasant way, seemed now 
to reproach me for my temerity, and made me in- 
stinctively shrink from the ordeal which I had so 
hastily and so adventurously invited. Thus waver- 
ing and desponding, calling up fears that the more 
experienced and courageous will, probably, smile at, 
and the more confident despise, the sting of mis- 
giving impressed on me the unwilling conviction, 
that while I had presumptuously essayed to teach, I 
had much, oh ! how much, myself to learn ; — that, 
in the endeavour to nourish the good seed in others, 
my own might germinate in artificial strength, and 
in attempting to lead them aright, I might, myself, 
be but " a cast-away f — and I wept the bitter tears 
of humiliation. 

Absorbed in this train of painful reflection, I be- 



28.2 THE CONCLUSION 

came unconsious of passing events,, when a sweet 
and gentle voice thus addressed nie, "Weep not, 
my daughter, for thou hast much to joy thee; and 
because thou hast loved ine, behold I come to thee 
laden with treasured gifts, with flowers that thou 
hast planted, fruits that thou hast nourished, smiles 
that thou hast earned, and fame that thou hast 
courted. Oh ! come, then, and taste, for choice and 
coveted is the banquet I bear." 

The tones were so dulcet in their flow, that I was 
lulled to passiveness ; and yet, when the syren strain 
was hushed, I held not forth my hand to grasp the 
proffered gifts. On looking up, I beheld a form of 
surpassing loveliness, glowing in a robe of soft green, 
spangled with the living fire-stars, that reflected the 
costly gems encircling her fair brow, over which 
flowed in graceful folds a veil of thin gossamer; 
while above an azure canopy was borne by an un- 
seen agency. She approached yet nearer, holding to- 
wards me a white rose — I looked on it and trembled, 
for a worm was nestling at its heart. I paused; 
when, hearing the same sweet voice utter the magic 
"Virtue," I looked again and saw, as in a mirror, 



the Conclusion. 283 

a female form clothed in purple and fine linen, with 
a diadem of terrene power overshadowing a brow of 
benignity and purity, with Faith for her guide, 
Hope for her almoner, and Charity for her hand- 
maiden. Oh ! it was a joyous sight to witness such 
gifts united, and as I yearned with longing rever- 
ence for kindred association ; behold a bright speck 
pierced through the darkness of the clouded east, 
which, gradually expanded, and I became enveloped, 
as with a halo of effulgent light, while the beauteous 
form before me seemed receding in the distance. 
The flowers she bore already drooped, the fruits had 
lost their bloom, the smiles had vanished, the hue 
of freshness had faded from her verdant robe ; the 
flitting stars glared in livid light, her gems became 
clouded, and the brilliant hectic that flushed beneath 
the folds of gossamer, bade me know the fair being 
as the Spirit of Earth ! 

Then arose a gentle breeze that cooled my excited 
sense, and on the passing gale, rich with the per- 
fume of untold sweets, floated the most thrilling 
harmony — music such as only seraphs make. 
Wrapped in delicious ecstacy, I heard a voice say, 



284 THE CONCLUSION. 

-' Arise, and fear not to partake of the passing gifts, 
for she who presents them is thy Mother. Taste 
for thy sustenance — abstain but from excess, and 
blush not to acknowledge thy dependance on her, 
for thou art a pensioner on her bounty : and, ere it 
be too late, stretch forth thine hand, for the mir- 
rored boon she offers thee will prove an aegis thou 
anon mayst need ; and if its chord, woven by mor- 
tality, may add one note to the celestial choir, the 
echo of many harps shall resound the melody of 
blessing and of praise ! Stay not thine hand in thy 
vineyard, it shall be fruitful and multiply, for I 
have said it, and my words are of those that pass 
not away. Though the young shoots may wither in 
ungenial soil, the sap shall return with two-fold 
strength to the parent stem. Put a hedge around 
thy vineyard and advertise the world thereof — it 
shall flourish and prosper, for it is planted in the 
good soil, and the great husbandman is not a stran- 
ger to it. Thou art as yet but a timid novice ; take 
courage and know that I will intercede for thee, will 
help thy infirmities, will sustain thee with my fruits, 
love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness ; 



THE CONCLUSION. 285 

and, above all, I will seal thee with my covenant, 
written not with ink, but with the life-stream from 
the heart; and I will lead thee into the land of 
uprightness, where, fear not to fight the good fight ; 
for I will go with thee and be thy stay, will put on 
thee the armour of light, and gird thee with the sword 
of faith — then mayst thou conquer, not by might 
nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of 
Hosts!" 

With that blessed spirit for my guide, support, 
and reward, I take comfort to my heart and fear 
not. Humanity is weak, but humanity is common 
to the children of earth. To that be imputed all 
blame; to the bounteous and eternal God, be as- 
cribed all praise, now and for ever ! 

The sable curtain of separation now falls between 
us ; from its front, kind reader, receive my regretful 
Farewell. 



ERRATA. 

Page 11, line 18, for ennuiee read ennme. 
67, lines 9 and 10, dele parenthesis. 
101, line 22, for ennuiee read ennui. 
109, line 13, for towering read lowering. 
119, line 16, /or has read have. 
141, line IS, for wandered read wondered. 
168, line 7, for mourned read moaned. 



Extracts from Reviews, or Notices of the Press on the 
First Edition. 



The warm heart replete with feelings and affections must overflow 
into some channel or another, and in the instance before us it has 
rippled over into a variety of sparkling rills and graceful meander- 
ings of Prose and Verse. . . . This work is strongly marked by 
morality and piety, as well as graced by taste and feeling. " The 
Cottage Home " is a sweet sketch of the resting place of the affec- 
tions and " The Light of the Parsonage " an admirable picture 
of what woman ought to be, in her purest and her highest pro- 
vince, in short Mrs. Pierce's great merit is the perception, the 
appreciation and the love of what is pure and right — every page 
is spent in an endeavour to paint the good or the beautiful. 

Metropolitan Magazine. 

We have been extremely well pleased with this rich little book , 
which will find its way into many a drawing-room, and receive no 
small number of readers and admirers. A " Picture from Life," 
and the " Mother's Farewell," are two spirited and excellent pieces 
of poetry— and " The Cottage Home," " Old Martha," and " The 
Light of the Parsonage," are admirable sketches in prose. The 
" Light of the Parsonage " especially is a delightful description of 
the parson's wife, who is thus aptly designated. It is in truth a 
spirit-stirring article. Church Intelligencer. 



This work is dedicated to that high and amiable pattern of piety 
and virtue, the Queen Dowager, who, in all manner of ways, will . 
long live in the hearts of the pious, the loyal, and the good, when 
her earthly career shall have ended — a period, we hope, still very 
far distant. We are happy to give our cordial recommendation 
to this excellent volume. It will form an admirable birth-day 
present to young ladies, inculcating, as it docs, in a lively amiable 
spirit, the high truths, privileges, and blessings of the gospel of 
Christ. Manchester Courier. 



A combination of essay, of tale and of poetry, put together in a 
modest aud artless manner, containing much amusing matter, to- 
gether with many serious and excellent thoughts. The chapter 
entitled "The Light of the Parsonage," which is intended as an 
illustration of the blessings derived from the influence of females 
on English Society, as instanced more particularly in the families 
of the clergy, is drawn up with much skill and good sense, and 
displays not only an intimate acquaintance with Scripture, but 
also a very sound and accurate state of feeling with regard to the 
nature, the doctrines and discipline of our Holy and Apostolic 
Church. The Gentleman's Magazine 




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